


Growing Up With The Country

by Sanwall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanwall/pseuds/Sanwall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1878, Wyoming territory.<br/>Dean Winchester has been hunting alone for a few years already when he hears word that his brother, Man of Letters Sam Winchester, is up to no good. When he attempts to get Sam out of a demon deal, Dean ends up bound to an angel instead. Dean never believed in angels, but if he did, they'd be nothing like Castiel, angel of the Lord and divine pain in the ass.<br/>Castiel, however, is all Dean has, and together they have to find Sam before he can open the Devil's Gate. The Oregon Trail is not an easy trip, with harsh terrain and even harsher people along the way. After run-ins with hunters and gun-toting townspeople, not to mention bandits, and avoiding certain death more than once, Dean thinks he might have to start believing in angels after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Colorado, 1878

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my alpha reader [dev_chieftain](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain), without whose help this story wouldn't be half as good as it is now, and my beta reader [tenderel](http://terendel.livejournal.com/), who may be divine and managed to catch all the missing commas. Any and all remaining mistakes are undoubtedly my own.  
> I would also like to extend my warmest thanks to the artist, [odysseaia](http://odysseaia.livejournal.com/) \- no writer could have asked for a more devoted or skilled artist!
> 
> This is a part of the [2013 Dean/Cas Big Bang challenge](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/) on livejournal.
> 
> [Art Masterpost](http://odysseaia.livejournal.com/21318.html) (contains spoilers, beware)

  
  


* * *

The sun was setting. Dean Winchester straightened up to push his hat off his head. It landed on his back, the strap around his neck keeping it from falling off. The man took the opportunity to wipe the sweat from his brow as well, and he put a hand to his back. He wasn’t as young as he once had been, and the digging of a grave was becoming more and more tiresome.

He squinted at the horizon, across miles and miles of dry grass. Dean didn’t quite know how to feel about the twilight – On the one hand the pressing heat of the Colorado sun was subsiding. On the other, Dean was way too acquainted with the things that crept out in the cover of the dark. It was hard to find the oncoming night soothing.

With one final effort, Dean deemed the grave deep enough. He heaved himself out of it and got to his feet with a huff. Impala was scraping her hoof against the ground a short distance away, throwing her beautiful black head about and making soft, snorting noises.

“Yeah yeah, I’ll be done in a second, baby!” Dean muttered gruffly to the horse, and kicked the dead body of the soul-eating _crocotta_ into the newly dug grave. It hit the earth with a thud, and Dean poured some whiskey from his flask onto the cloth the body was swept in.

Then he struck a match to the sole of his well-worn boot and flicked it into the grave in one smooth move.

“Bye, you son-of-a-bitch,” Dean muttered, forming his full lips around the harsh words, and spat into the growing flames. One less monster to worry about.

Once Dean had had enough of trying to find miners-turned-wendigos in the vicinity of Leadville, he turned his horse towards a nameless town in Wyoming.

The early spring sky was deceptively blue, and the sun was warm, throwing long shadows on the sandy road, the only one to be seen for miles. Dean didn’t quite relax as he trotted along. He was close enough to Hole-In-The-Wall to be on his watch for scumbags and outlaws.

Just as twilight fell, Dean and his horse came upon a slightly rickety and well worn house by the roadside.  Above the door hung a battered wooden sign spelling “Roadhouse,” and Dean pulled Impala to a stop just underneath it.

He swung himself off Impala, who neighed and danced to the side. The hunter gripped the bridle and knocked at the door twice with the toe of his boot.

There was a muffled sound of someone approaching the door, saying,

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’!” – followed by the noise of a latch being undone. The door was cracked open, and a young, blonde woman peered out.

A bright grin spread on Dean’s face. He threw out the hand not holding his horse by the reins.

“You can put away the shotgun, Jo – It’s me!”

“All the more reason not to put it away,” the young woman said gruffly, but her lips quirked into a smile as well. She threw the door wide open and exclaimed:

“Dean Winchester!” She put the butt of her shotgun that she was carrying on the floor and leaned against the pipe. “Last I heard you was down in Arkansas, salting and burning bones of some sorry ghost or other!”

“Can’t keep me away for long,” Dean said with a wink. “You know your ma keeps the best whiskey this side of the Great Plains.”

“Get in here, you good-for-nothing cowboy!” said a voice resembling Jo’s, but decidedly more mature. “Joanna Beth, you go tend to Mr. Winchester’s horse, all right?”

“Yes, ma!” Jo called over her shoulder. She slipped by Dean to grab the bridle and their hands brushed together briefly. Dean tipped his hat in thanks before stepping into the smoky warmth of the Roadhouse. There were maybe three other men in the lamp-lit room, but Dean reckoned there were some more boarded up upstairs, well asleep after a long journey.

“Dean Winchester. I’ll be damned,” said the woman behind the counter. She was blonde like her daughter, but with a broader face and a slightly less inviting smile. She had one hand on her hip, and the other leaned on the countertop, clutching a rag.

“Ellen,” Dean said as jovially as his gruff voice allowed and pushed his hat off his head, “Mrs. Harvelle, damn but you _are_ a sight for sore eyes!”

“Save it,” Ellen said and lifted the hand from her hip and poured a glass full of amber whiskey. She shot it over the counter top – Dean was just quick enough to reach the counter to catch the glass before it tumbled over the edge.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said and downed it in one go before he slammed the glass back down on the wood.

“So, how’s Sam?” Ellen asked curtly and put her elbows on the counter, crossing her arms. Dean’s smile disappeared instantly, and his gaze fell down to his hands, which were playing with the empty glass.

“I ain’t spoken to him in about a year,” he muttered, tone venomous. He could _feel_ Ellen roll her eyes.

“Just ‘cause he followed in your grandpappy’s footsteps instead of John’s don’t make him a villain, Dean,” she said in a slightly softer tone, but Dean only scoffed.

“I can’t say I much appreciate Samuel Colt over Henry Winchester,” he said bitterly, “but fact is that it was Samuel who saved the Winchester family, and not Henry and his precious Men o’ Letters.”

Dean tapped the glass against the wood and gave Ellen a meaningful glance. She sighed and apparently let the whole issue go, because she poured him another.

“So,” he said after emptying that one too. “You hear of any work I might dig my teeth into?”

“Go check with Ash,” Ellen said with a flick of her head, her blonde locks settling over her shoulders, indicating the door behind her.

“Great,” Dean said and tried to get the last few drops from the glass before he got to his feet and ambled around the counter and disappeared through the door.

“A real piece of work, the lot of you Winchesters,” Ellen muttered under her breath at Dean’s broad back.

 “Hey, Ash, you old hedgewitch!” Dean called as the pushed the wooden door open, entering a small but cozy back room.

“Dean-o!” called Ash, where he sat at a rickety table strewn with random riffraff Dean couldn’t identify.

By the table sat someone else, a woman with her back turned to the door. Ash, wearing his dirty blonde hair long in the style of Buffalo Bill, got to his feet somewhat unsteadily and swung his glass of beer in a greeting.

“Been a while since you were around, eh?” he said with his characteristic drawl, “Good hunting lately?”

“Good enough,” Dean replied easily, taking off his hat, “just passing by to see if you had any jobs nearby that need doing.”

“Not nearby,” said the woman by the table. She rose swiftly, black skirt billowing around her legs as she turned around.

“Pamela!” said an astonished Dean, and held out his arms. Pamela laughed, grey eyes twinkling as she graced him with a hug and a kiss to his bristly cheek.

After they all had settled down around the table, dimly lit by a small lamp, Dean leaned forwards onto his elbows and shot Pamela a flirty grin.

“So, fair maiden. Your psychic eye spy any jobs for me?”

“If you don’t stop with your quips I’ll whip your ass from here to Sunday, Winchester!” Pamela retorted and slapped Dean’s arm playfully. But the dimples in her cheeks soon disappeared and her expression turned sober.

“Actually, there’s been a lot going on, in the spiritual world,” she said carefully, and Dean straightened up.

“What kind of things?” he said warily, and Pamela looked down.

“It’s about your brother, Sam,” she said.

Ash gave a low whistle and Dean didn’t even bother to shoot him a murderous glance.

“What about Sam?” he asked, tone grim.

Pamela took a deep breath.

“There’s a rumor of an angel walking the Earth,” she began. “And the Men of Letters want to summon him.”

“Sorry Ellen, I can’t be staying,” Dean whispered hurriedly into the woman’s golden locks as he came up behind her. She whipped around, fast as a rattle snake.

“What now?” she demanded in a voice loud enough that her daughter snapped her head their way from across the room.

“Pamela and Ash are going to perform a ritual that’ll take me to Sam. I want Impala with me, or God knows how I’ll ever get back from where-the-fuck-ever he is.”

“Language, boy,” Ellen scolded him, out of old habit, and crossed her arms. “What is this fool’s errand they have you on?”

Dean’s expression was dead serious, and there was a pleading note to his voice as he said,

“Sammy is up to no good, Ellen. I have to stop him, or at least save him if I’m too late to…”

His voice broke, and he looked away. Ellen’s expression softened and she called over to her daughter.

“Jo, please take out Mr. Winchester’s horse. He’ll be leaving soon.”

“Already?” Jo asked incredulously as she came over to them and grabbed Dean’s arm. “Dean, what’s the matter?”

Dean smiled and bumped his fist to Jo’s arm in return.

“It’s a job, Jo,” he said. “And it involves Sam. I can’t stay.”

Jo looked from Dean to her mom and back at Dean.

“You need help?” she asked, and Dean would have laughed if it wasn’t for her completely serious expression.

“No,” Ellen said curtly and Jo opened her mouth to protest, but Dean quickly cut in,

“Jo, it’s too risky to bring you along. To tell you the truth, I have no idea what I’m up against, and I don’t need to worry about you, too.”

Her frown turned into a pout, but she nodded.

“I’ll bring her to the back yard,” she said somewhat bitterly and turned on her heel.

Dean was all packed up and ready to go, astride Impala who calmly stood in the middle of the pentagram riddled with occult symbols that had been painted into the dry earth on the back yard of the Roadhouse.

Ash stood leaned against the wall of the Roadhouse, his face lit by a single lantern he was holding in his hand.

“So Dean, this is something you can only use once,” he warned, eyelids heavy. “Neither you, or your horse, will be able to hop a distance like this again. You’ll have to come back the old-fashioned way, from wherever it is you land.”

“Gonna need something of Sam’s to bring you to him,” Pamela called. She had wrapped a black shawl around her shoulders to ward against the night cold. “Or at least something he touched and is connected to him.”

Dean hesitated, but started to dig beneath his linen shirt under his leather west and coat. After a while his hand emerged, holding a necklace. It got tangled in the green scarf around his neck, and he had to lift off his hat to finally get it off.

“Here,” he said curtly and threw it to Ash, who caught it in one hand. It was a small golden amulet shaped like some horned heathen god. The long-haired man studied it for a moment before giving it to Pamela.

“I’m gonna want that back,” Dean said almost threateningly when Pamela closed her eyes and let her left hand hover over the amulet resting in her right palm.

“Then come and get it when you’re done,” she said without opening her arms, a slight smile gracing her comely features.

She uttered a short Latin chant in a commanding voice, and Dean clung desperately to Impala as the world dissolved around him.


	2. Unknown Territory

* * *

When ground solidified under him and his horse, Dean inhaled sharply to keep himself from throwing up. Impala neighed mournfully and took several small steps to the side, as if to try to dance away from under Dean.

He leaned forwards, pressing his torso to her silver mane and patted her neck affectionately.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay girl,” he shushed calmingly, while trying to look over his situation and position.

He was standing on a starlit field, right in front of a big barn. There was no way of discerning what state or territory he was in - all he could hear was the wind in the grass, the soft chirping of crickets and other night noises. Somewhere in the Midwest, maybe. The full moon illuminated the night, and Dean had no trouble picking out the sigils painted on the small windows on the barn.

 _So he’s in there_ , Dean thought and swung off Impala. There was nothing he could tie her to, and he didn’t want to bind her legs in case he needed to make a quick getaway, so he only patted her side.

“Don’t run off on me now,” he mumbled, pressing his cheek to hers and fed her two cubes of sugar. She gave a low grunt, and Dean smiled before leaving her and turning towards the barn.

He loosened his trustworthy Colt, an heirloom of his grandfather, in the holster on his hip as he flung his brown leather coat back. Dean took a quick tour around the barn – he could see the farmhouse a short distance away. It seemed completely abandoned, only a dark silhouette against the night sky.

He checked that his bottle of holy water was easily accessible in his pocket before flattening himself to the barn wall and peering through a sigil-painted window.

To his amazement, Dean immediately caught sight of his brother in the dimly lit insides of the building. He was standing beside a woman with dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders – this was the only feature Dean could make out.

Sigils on the wall and on the floor – but no other person in there. Dean squared his shoulders, swung away from the wall and promptly kicked in the door to the barn.

“Hiya, Sam,” he said and grinned at the look on Sam Winchester’s face when he whirled around to lock gazes with his brother.

“Dean?” he said incredulously. The woman by his side hissed and moved backwards, her eyes turning black. Dean drew and cocked the Colt. He trained the revolver on her in one move.

“If you know of me at all,” he said coldly. “You know this gun here can kill you. So don’t move.”

“Dean,” Sam repeated, urgency coloring his voice. “It’s okay. Ruby’s with me.”

“Ruby?” Dean peered at the woman. She was dressed in a simple blouse with a green overcoat, split skirt and practical boots – she was pretty in a sharp way, and Dean would have pegged her as trouble even without knowing she was a demon.

“It has a name?” he sneered.

She threw him a curse.

“C’mon Sammy, since when do you work with _demons_? I like the whole George Custer-thing you got going with your hair by the way, it really matches your mutton chops.”

Sam looked vaguely embarrassed about his thick, shoulder length brown hair as he flicked it out of his eyes, raising his huge hands in a placating gesture.

“Dean, this isn’t what you think – let me explain!”

“Oh, so you _aren’t_ trying to summon an angel with the help of a demon deal, huh?” Dean was unable to keep the anger from his voice. Even though the Colt was still trained on the demon – Ruby – his piercing green eyes were fixed on his little brother.

“C’mon Sam, you know how demon deals end. And _angels_? You only have the Men of Letters’ word that they even exist, and you _know_ those sons-of-bitches are a buncha God-fearing and God-obsessed tenderfeet. They’ll turn to using magic to defeat monsters because they’re afraid of getting their lily-white hands dirty!”

Here Dean felt a twinge of guilt – he had relied on the help of a psychic and a hedgewitch to get here himself. But he straightened up and banished the thought from his head with a huff of righteous anger. “Or worse,” he continued. “They’ll send you to take their fall!”

Dean could see Sam squaring his jaw in frustration and anger. Dean and Sam might have been brought up as hunters, but five years ago, Sam had taken off with not so much as a good-bye to be initiated in the secrets of the Men of Letters. Secrets that their dad had willingly abandoned when his wife had been killed – and Dean hadn’t forgiven Sam yet.

“Just because you have no faith doesn’t mean angels – and God – don’t exist,” Sam snapped. “We’re about to give you hard proof of their existence, Dean. I’d been working on my own for so long – I was getting reckless. And Ruby saved my life, she – well, demons are planning to open the gates of hell, and _she’s helping me to stop it._ This is for the greater good –“

“But at what cost?” Dean interrupted harshly, “a _demon deal_ , Sam? After what happened to mom?”

Sam visibly shrunk back at this. He looked away, but put his hands to his hips, regaining courage.

“You don’t know what’s at stake,” he said and took a step closer to Dean, who wavered.

That moment of uncertainty was all the younger Winchester needed. He flung something – a powder – from a purse in his belt right in Dean’s face as he chanted,

“ _Bah-rah-gah-doh_!”

Dean blinked once before his eyes turned upwards and he fell to the ground, fast asleep.

Dean awoke with a loud snore.

In retrospect, it wasn’t his most dignified awakening, but he was too busy trying to free himself from the rope binding his wrists together to care.

“Sam, I will fuckin’ _end_ you,” he growled. He could see the broad back of his tall brother at the far side of the barn, hunched over something Dean couldn’t make out.

“Where’s that hellspawn o’ yours?” he continued, twisting his body in an attempt to reach the blade tucked away in his boot. Sloppy of Sam to miss it, he thought to himself as he finally reached it. He pulled it out and hid it in his palm.

Just as Sam straightened up, the barn door swung open. Ruby strode in, a man slung over her shoulder. As she passed Dean, she kicked him in the side, making him curse.

“Ruby,” Sam scolded as he turned around. He was wrapping gauze around his muscular underarm, just under the folding of his sleeve.

“I don’t like his attitude,” the demon said with her lazy, lilting voice. She dumped the man she was carrying on the floor, in the middle of the sigil Sam had just painted – with his own blood, Dean realized, and struggled all the harder to cut through the ropes.

“It’s almost sunrise,” Ruby said and flicked her hair out of her face and put a hand to her hip, “Get on with it, Sam. You have to say the words and touch him for it to work.”

“Who is that?” Dean demanded to know. All he could see was a black coat and a head with tousled black hair. The rope was starting to give, thread after thread snapping. “Are you going to sacrifice that man, Sam? Really?”

Sam shot his brother an annoyed look.

“The angel needs a vessel to be summoned,” he said curtly. “He is a holy man, Dean. He prayed for this.”

“So what is the demon getting out of all this, huh?” Dean said through clenched teeth. He was almost through. “She just going to let you walk out of here with that angel?”

Sam ignored his brother and began to recite an incantation Dean didn’t recognize – it wasn’t Latin. Ruby stood just behind him where he stood by the sigil on the floor, a mean-looking knife in her petite hands.

Dean’s eyes widened as he suddenly realized Ruby had lifted the jagged-edged blade to run it through Sam. The last threads of the rope snapped, and Dean threw himself forward.

He managed to push Sam away so that the last word in the incantation ended in a huff. Ruby gave a shriek and before Dean knew what was happening, Ruby’s knife was sticking out of his chest.

Dean looked down on the handle. His legs gave way and he sank to his knees inside the sigil, beside the unconscious, dark-haired man.

Sam had gotten to his feet, and his mouth fell open in horror.

“Dean!” he shouted and sprung forward. Ruby held out a hand to restrain him, a calculating and curious look in her dark eyes.

Dean gave an unintelligible gurgle, and his vision started to fade. The last thing he remembered was toppling over, landing on the body of the priest and a bright, white light filling his world.


	3. The Third Day

* * *

 

A painful sensation of heat searing through his body and something like a kick from a mule to his chest made Dean Winchester’s eyes fly open.

There was a sharp intake of breath as he bolted upright, hands clutching at his stabbed chest.

“What the hell,” he breathed slowly. The only thing to show for having a knife thrust between his ribs was a tear in his dark leather vest and gray shirt underneath and a splatter of blood – the skin was completely healed and smooth, and there was no pain anymore. His black anti-possession tattoo on his left breast, a pentagram encircled in flames, was untouched and seemed like new.

He looked up wide-eyed, and found himself on the floor of the barn, staring into the wide, blue eyes of the priest who he had last seen sprawled on the floor in the middle of a blood sigil.

“What happened?” Dean gasped, feeling out of breath as he scrambled to his feet. “And who the hell are you?”

The dark-haired man regarded him carefully.

“I’m the one who brought you back from the land of the dead,” he answered solemnly with gravel in his voice.

Dean blinked once, chest still heaving.

“Yeah, right,” he said. “Who are you _really?_ ”

The man sighed, eyes fluttering close for a moment before opening and once again regarding Dean with a strange intensity.

“My name is Castiel; I am an angel of the Lord.”

Dean’s eyes flicked over his appearance: A slender, black-clad man with a preacher’s white collar, arms hanging loosely by his sides and his stance rigid. He had a pointy, straight nose in a broad face, and startlingly bright blue eyes outlined by dark lashes. He looked back up into those sky-colored eyes and said,

“Bullshit.”

He then tore his gaze away from the alleged angel and looked around in the deserted barn – the sigils were still in place, but Ruby, Sam and the Colt were gone.

Dean frowned. Sam would not have left him, he was sure of it. That demon must have done something to him, or kidnapped him. Though doubt was gnawing at his insides – Sam had worked with Ruby, what’s to say he wouldn’t abandon his brother for her too – a brother he’d left before.

The sky was a pale grey outside, and Dean surmised it was dawn. He went over to the corner of the barn where his broad-brimmed Stetson lay – he had no idea at which point it had been knocked off his head.

He put it on and scowled at the priest.

“They can’t have gone far,” Dean muttered. “Let’s find my horse and I can drop you off wherever – hell, I don’t even know where we are.”

“We are in the state called Kansas,” the so-called angel, Castiel, supplied helpfully. “Though your brother and the demon are three days gone.”

Dean halted in mid-step on his way toward the door.

“Three days?” he asked, the disbelief evident in his face.

The man nodded.

“Retrieving your soul took two days and sewing your body together was the work of another day,” he said gravely. “And now you have finally risen.”

Dean shook his head and took a step towards the man – Castiel. He only gazed calmly up into Dean’s scowling face.

“Listen,” Dean said, raising a hand, “I don’t believe your talk about being a damn angel – I just want to know what my brother has done and what he’s paying for his mistakes. I’m sorry you got caught up in all of this, but I won’t join your cult, thanks.”

Dean was about to turn away when the pressure seemed to rise in the air. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as if a thunderstorm was moving in. The dawn seemed to shrink back as the light drained away, and Dean’s eyes were drawn to the slender figure in the black clothes.

“I tore you from Death’s cold hands,” Castiel said with a low but thunderous voice, blue eyes blazing, “and I stitched your broken body together with my own grace because you chained me to this vessel with your touch and your blood and your sacrifice.”

He took a long stride that brought him face to face with Dean – though being shorter than the hunter he seemed to grow, dark fluttering shadows laced with blue light manifesting like wings behind him.

“Our lives are bound together and I had to bring you back from the land of the dead, lest I had followed you there,” Castiel said in an almost-whisper, eyes piercing Dean’s. “I healed your mortal wound with the celestial power you bound in this flesh. You should treat me with respect.”

The proximity was electric, and Dean swallowed, shrinking back. The angel touched one finger to his chest. Dean took a step back and when he looked down he could see three thin crosses of white light, right where the knife had stabbed him – like stitches. They stung for a moment, but as the angel retracted his hand, the marks faded into his skin.

The pressure eased out of the barn, and the dawning light seemed to flood back in an instant.

Dean let go of a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and consciously rubbed a hand over his chest.

“I’m going to go find my horse,” he muttered, completely ignoring the earth-shattering revelation that stood before him.

“So if you’re an angel,” Dean conceded as they exited the barn together. “how come you’re not dressed in a white towel, like in all the paintings?”

Castiel looked down briefly, put his hands to his stomach as if he was regarding his clothes.

“This is a vessel,” he said with a twitch of his lips. “Angels cannot walk upon the earth without a body, as angels are waves of celestial intent. And so a righteous, holy person is chosen to host us.”

Dean blanched at his words, and halted to look at him.

“You mean you’re possessing someone?” he said, and Castiel looked sad.

“We need their consent to inhabit their bodies,” he said and looked down. “But for this ritual… I don’t fully know what magic they worked, your brother and the demon, but there was no soul here. This vessel was empty when my grace filled it.”

Dean closed his eyes and rubbed his brow for a moment.

“Okay. I just… I need to find my horse,” he said tersely. Dean was not ready to deal with this – wrapping his head around a walking talking warrior of God was bad enough.

“She is on her way back to you,” Castiel said and turned away from the rising sun. Dean opened his mouth to make a snide comment, but at that moment the sound of hooves reached his ears. He turned around as well.

Impala came trotting towards him in the high spring grass, throwing her head about and lifting her legs high as if she was a foal again. Dean couldn’t help but grin as he held out his arms to welcome his baby back, but the grin faltered as the horse went right past him to nuzzle Castiel. The angel seemed taken aback by the token of affection, and patted her neck awkwardly.

“She’s probably looking for some treat,” Dean muttered gruffly, gripped the reins and pulled her back rather more harshly than he had intended.

“So what do you know about what my brother and that demon is doing?” he said, trying to mask his uncertainty, attempting to get back to safer ground. A job. Hunting a demon was a job. If his brother was kidnapped by that demon – well, all the more reason to go after it.

Castiel looked at him.

“I know the demon’s intent is to sacrifice an angel to open a Devil’s Gate,” he said, eyes never leaving Dean’s. “And from this gate, demons will spring and roam the earth as they please.”

Dean swallowed and moved carefully so that Impala was standing between him and the celestial being.

“Why didn’t she take you, then?”

“I don’t think she expected my appearing to take place three days after the summoning spell.”

A brief, troubled look flew over Castiel’s features, drawing his black eyebrows together.

“It is difficult to discern all the things known to angels in this mortal form, but I believe the demon is headed for a Devil’s Gate together with your brother. She will try to summon one of my brothers or sisters by sacrificing Sam Winchester, as she sacrificed you to summon me. She will kill the angel to free the demons.”

Dean scratched the back of his neck, where the strands of his short-cropped sandy brown hair tickled him.

“But the angel will bring him back to life as you did me, right?” Dean scowled. He was more of a salt-and-burn pragmatic hunter; this Men of Letters biblical stuff was all a bit beyond him. He felt angry.

Castiel nodded, pursing his chapped lips.

“Yes, but in that case their lives will be as intertwined as ours are. When the angel dies, so will Sam. We need to stop them.”

“Do you know where this Devil’s Gate is?”

“In a place you call Wyoming territory, close to the Sweetwater River. They will have to find a vessel for the angel first, though.” He threw a glance down his own frame.

Dean nodded and heaved himself up on Impala in one swift move.

“Ain’t got much time to lose, then,” he said and expertly guided the horse one step to the side. He held out a hand to the angel, who blinked. “Let’s go stop them. Unless you’d rather fly..?”

Castiel frowned and there was an annoyed tone to his voice when he replied,

“I seem to be earth-bound in this form.”

Dean gave him a humorless, lopsided grin.

“Hop on cowboy,” he said drily, “Impala will carry us both at least to Dodge City. From what I gather, your angelic sense of direction will lead us the right way?”

Reluctantly, Castiel took Dean’s hand. The skin was dry, and a small spark of electricity traveled between their palms.

A heave and a pull of muscle, and the black-clad angel in human form was sitting snugly behind Dean in the saddle. Impala started at the added weight, and Dean laughed a little when the jump made Castiel clutch his chest.

Castiel pointed northward, and with a click of his tongue Dean set Impala in motion. They trotted off towards Dodge City in the high, dry grass.


	4. The Wicked City

* * *

The sun had just begun its descent in the clear blue sky when the two men astride one horse entered the city called Dodge.

“Welcome to the queen of cow towns,” Dean said as they trotted down the main road.

They had hardly exchanged words during the morning, except for when they had taken a siesta before noon. Dean had drunk water from his flask and held it out to Castiel. The angel had scowled at him, and Dean had muttered, “Fine,” and pulled off his hat.

While chewing on a strip of beef jerky, he had filled his hat with water from the flask and held it out for Impala to drink.

“That’s hardly hygienic,” Castiel had said as Dean put the brown, water-stained hat back on his head with a wet noise.

“Get used to it,” Dean had replied with a flash of white teeth, “and believe me partner, I’m better than most. I keep the lice away, and I do this newfangled thing called brushing my teeth.”

He had laughed at the confused line between Castiel’s blue eyes.

“By the looks of it, your priest did too. They are pearly white, if I ever saw ‘em.”

Dean had had to suppress a smile when the angel ran his tongue over his teeth on what seemed to be pure instinct.

“Right, hop on then preacher,” he had said briskly before mounting Impala. He had reached out a hand that the angel grasped with a sincere, “Thank you.”

Dean had found that strange, and not another word was uttered until Dodge City.

The hunter pulled his horse to a stop next to a building with the word “SALOON” painted on its façade, crammed in between a grocer’s shop and a plain, brown building.

They both dismounted, and Dean tied Impala to the rack outside the saloon, and she immediately started drinking from the trough.

“Follow me and don’t say a word,” Dean muttered to Castiel, who seemed a little affronted but obliged him and followed him inside the saloon.

Dean took a quick gander around the saloon. A few guests sat at various tables, nursing glasses, and, in some cases, a girl. No one seemed prone to start waving a gun around. Dean had his own less-than remarkable revolver in his holster partly obscured by his thigh-length brown coat.

“Hi,” Dean said with the brightest of smiles to the bartender and sat down with a flourish. His companion followed suit somewhat timidly. Dean wondered if that scowl was how he was born.

“I’ll have a whiskey, thank you,” Dean said and cleared his throat, “and a room for the night, if you’ve got one. Two beds.”

The bartender, a slightly overweight white man with stains on his white apron and three days’ worth of stubble around his beard, gave him a humorless smirk as he poured him the glass of whiskey.

“A room I have, but two beds? Just count your stars you won’t have to sleep on the floor,” he said and turned to Castiel. “What’s your poison then, shepherd?”

The angel tilted his head.

“I don’t want any poison,” he said wonderingly. “And I don’t herd sheep, neither literally nor metaphorically.”

Dean choked on his first sip of whiskey and hurried to put it down. He smiled brightly and clapped Castiel’s shoulder with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

“What _my friend Cas_ here means,” he said quickly. “Is that in his religion they don’t drink, or eat sheep. A glass of water, if you please mister.”

When Castiel was sipping on his somewhat greasy glass of water, Dean turned to the bartender and tipped off his hat.

“Actually, I’m looking for a friend of mine – Bobby Singer. Owns a few heads o’ cattle last I heard.” Dean put a dollar on the counter and the bartender’s surly demeanor changed instantly.

“Robert Singer? You’ll be wanting the Singer Stockyard. Out west, on the edge of town.”

“Right! Good,” Dean said happily. It had been a good long while since he’d last passed through town, and it was good to know Bobby was still kicking. He peered around the bartender and pulled at his earlobe.

“There wouldn’t, uh, happen to be a game of poker in the works back there, would there?”

The bartender’s eyes crinkled in an expression between suspicion and mirth. Dean rolled his eyes and procured another dollar from his coat.

“I’ll show you in,” he said and led them to a smoky back room where five men were sitting around a circular table, holding cards.

“Watch and listen angel,” Dean muttered from the corner of his mouth. “I’ll show you how to get rich.”

Dean stumbled out of the saloon with Cas in tow. A mile-wide grin illuminated his face and he slapped Castiel on the shoulder excitedly as he tucked a wad of dollar bills into his shirt.

Cas peered at him down the length of his nose.

“You deceived the other players,” he noted. “And you are inebriated.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

“Shut up, Cas,” he growled hurriedly. “They can’t know I hustled them, or they’ll have me tarred and feathered. And I’m not _that_ drunk, c’mon.”

He then gripped the angel by the arm and dragged him away in search for a tailor.

Dean, clad in a new shirt (but deciding to sew his vest instead of getting a new one), ripped away the white collar around the angel’s neck and put the new, black Boss-of-the-plains hat on Castiel’s head.

“There. Much better,” he declared.

Castiel had to adjust the brim to be able to peer up at Dean. He was carrying a bundle of his newly acquired change of clothes.

“Why are you doing all this?” Cas asked seriously. Then again, everything he did was serious, Dean thought. He looked away.

“Because I need to get to Wyoming in one piece, and that means I have to get you to Wyoming in one piece, too. And I don’t want you to stink!”

With that, Dean strode off to find Singer’s Stockyard, trusting the angel to follow him, which of course he did.

 

Dean knocked on the door of the house that allegedly belonged to Robert “Bobby” Singer, and put his hands on his hips to wait for someone to answer.

Before long, the door swung open just a crack, and Dean looked up into the barrel of a gun.

“Hey, whoah, Bobby! It’s me!” he stammered without moving an inch, so as to not upset any high-strung nerves.

“Winchester?” came a gruff voice, and the gun was lowered and the door thrown wide open. Dean couldn’t help but grin as he looked over the short, buff frame of the grumpy bearded man who had looked after Sammy and him the times John Winchester couldn’t take them on a cross-country hunt.

“The hell are you doing here, son?” Bobby asked, sounding angry. Dean only smiled wider, because Bobby always sounded angry.

“I need a horse, and I figured y’could sell me a good one,” he said and tipped his hat.

“Last I saw you, you were riding a mighty fine black steed. What happened to her? You used to take good care of your horses.”

“I still do, sir!” Dean reassured the old hunter. “But see, I got myself a partner who’ll be needing his own ride.”

Bobby looked past Dean’s shoulder at Castiel for the first time.

“Who the hell is that, some kind of tenderfoot?” Bobby sneered through his moustache. Dean threw a glance backward. Castiel was gazing towards the cattle yard with a wistful look in his eyes, the bundle of clothes awkwardly in his arms.

“Sorta,” Dean admitted. “And look, Bobby. I need to ask you a favor.”

“I coulda guessed,” Bobby said drily and leaned on his shotgun. “Well, come on in then and let’s get it over with.”

Dean took off his hat and gestured to Cas to come in with him.

“You’ve been on the east coast a lot?” Bobby asked as he led the way into the house.

“No, I been out west in Colorado lately. Why?” Dean asked, genuinely perplexed.

“You just wear your hair like ‘em” Bobby commented and Dean snorted.

“Keeping it short means there’s less for monsters to grab,” he replied. _Something Sam never worried about_ , he continued internally. For all of his being more of an Easterner than Dean, he seemed to have latched onto the Western frontier trend with long hair.

“I need to get a letter to the Men o’ Letters,” Dean finally said as they were seated in Bobby’s kitchen. The old hunter-turned-cattle-owner didn’t believe in servants, and so his kitchen was his second living room.

“Are you trying to be funny?” Bobby sniffed and put on a kettle of coffee. Castiel had put down the bundle of clothes on a sofa and had picked up a wooden talisman of some sort, his slender fingers examining it thoroughly.

Dean cleared his throat.

“No, I’m not. Sam was kidnapped by a demon.”

That made Bobby turn around, with an incredulous look on his face.

“He’s one of ‘em, shouldn’t they know about that?”

“Well, from what I gather he was in cahoots with the demon on their orders. So hell if I know.”

Bobby shook his head and placed three cups on the kitchen table.

“Write your letter then. I’ll get it to them somehow, to be sure.”

While Dean was penning the letter, tongue between teeth, Bobby poured three mugs of coffee, and sat down by the kitchen table.

“Come, drink up,” he said to Castiel, who obligingly put the talisman down and wandered over to the table.

Dean glanced briefly at the angel as he put the cup to his lips and took a careful sip.

A look of mild disgust formed upon Castiel’s features.

“You know,” he said conversationally. “You humans used to just chew the berries of the coffee plant. I’m fairly certain that would taste better than this - this brew.”

“Who the hell is this ungrateful son of a bitch you’ve dragged into my house?” Bobby said to Dean, and if Dean didn’t know better he could have sworn there was a note of incredulousness in his voice.

Dean stared blankly at Bobby for a moment before saying,

“Bobby, Cas. Cas, Bobby.” He then returned to his writing.

Bobby stared at him for a moment before fixing his eyes on Castiel, who looked almost apologetic.

“I did not mean to offend,” he said. “My name is Castiel and I am an angel.”

“The hell you are,” Bobby replied and Dean rolled his eyes because he knew he would have to do some _explaining_.

After a lot of talking, Dean managed to get Bobby’s, if not blessing, then at least reluctant permission, to travel to Wyoming to stop all the demons from crawling out of the Pit. He threw a book to Dean and another to Castiel.

“The Bible for you, so you can educate yourself. If they really are trying to start the apocalypse,” he’d said, nodding to Dean before turning to Castiel.

“And this is a book on angel lore. I guess you know all there is about yourselves, but hey, it might come in handy.”

It was close to midnight when the hunter and the angel ambled back to the saloon, leading a horse Bobby had allowed Dean to purchase for a small sum and the promise to take good care of her. Castiel was wearing his new clothes – the long, pale brown overcoat that would protect him well from wind and rain and scorching sun flapped out behind him as he walked.

Dean immediately went over to check on Impala, who neighed softly as he patted her on her flank. Castiel stood back, awkwardly holding the reins of Bobby’s dapple grey mare.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured and untied her. “Let’s go find you a stable, eh?”

“That’s him,” came a voice, gruff with intoxication. “That’s the no-good ruffian that took my money!”

Dean whipped around. Two of the men he’d played poker with earlier were standing in the doorway of the saloon, one of them pointing at him.

“Hey sheriff,” the other called into the saloon. “Come on out here.”

“Cas,” Dean said in measured tones. “Get on your horse.”

Castiel hesitated, and Dean was about to get over there and shove him up in the saddle, when the two poker players lunged out to tackle him.

Dean let go of Impala’s reins to defend himself – the horse reared, and Dean managed to throw one of the assaulters under her hooves. Unfortunately the other caught him in a vicious midriff tackle that knocked the wind out of him.

“I’ll show you how to hustle someone!” the man growled and straddled Dean, landing a punch square on the hunter’s jaw, the impact splitting his lip. “I’ll shove-“

What he was going to shove where Dean never got to know, because Castiel grabbed the man’s hair and yanked him up, driving his knee into his gut with stunning efficiency.

The unfortunate man doubled up retching, and the angel mercilessly finished him off with a knee to the jaw as well.

“Thanks man,” Dean huffed as Cas helped him to his feet. He took a few wobbly steps to reach his horse and grabbed the mane for support, and heaved himself up into the saddle despite the blooming, painful bruise on his stomach.

Castiel also sat up, and grabbed the reins awkwardly.

Dean reached out and slapped the grey mare’s rump as he simultaneously kicked Impala into a trot.

“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge,” he muttered as they set off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toothbrushes weren't mass-produced before 1885 in the US, but the toothbrush was patented in 1857.


	5. Lawrence, Kansas

* * *

_Dean remembers the day back in -56. He was only four and so he couldn’t remember a time before Kansas was bleeding, but he remembers the day it came to his home. His mother had just put him to bed, but for some reason he couldn’t fall asleep at all. He tossed and turned, and finally, he got up to search for some comfort._

_His father hadn’t returned from the fields yet and so he ambled to the kitchen to find his mother – when she wasn’t there he thought she had to be with Sammy in the bedroom Dean didn’t fit there anymore._

_The noise of voices raised in anger reached Dean’s ear, and his pulse quickened. He didn’t want mommy and daddy to fight again – he was tired of having them make up. But he didn’t want them to keep fighting either, so he followed the voices to the bedroom._

_“-out of my house before exorcise your unholy-“_

_“-don’t want to do anything hasty now Mary, I have your second-born in my hands-“_

_“Mom?” Dean said and peeked inside the room. Someone who was definitely not his father was standing by his little brother’s crib.  His mother was standing on the other side of the bed in only her chemise. Her stance was rigid, ready to fight, but Dean could see she was scared._

_“Dean!” she said hurriedly, “go get John!”_

_Dean ducked away as fast as he could and ran back the way he came. He didn’t take many steps before he could hear his mother screaming. That was when the door slammed, and John Winchester whirled past his son, into the bedroom._

_He turned around and ambled back – his dad appeared almost instantly and shoved a crying Sam into his arms._

_“Get Sammy out, now!” John roared and Dean nodded, clutching his baby brother tight as he ran out of the house as fast as he could._

_As he stood panting on the lawn, anxiously awaiting his parents and slowly rocking Sam back and forth he could hear another shout from within. Flames burst from the roof and soon a window exploded from the heat._

_Dean stumbled backwards while choking on a scream – and then his dad was out of the door, scooping both Sam and him into his arms and starting to run towards the town. Dean didn’t see it, but he could hear the flames eating their home, turning it into cinders._

_“What about mom?” Dean remembers himself whispering into his dad’s neck._

_“We’ll have to go stay with granddad Henry,” his father had replied, “He’ll help us.”_

_But he wouldn’t - hadn’t. And John Winchester had turned to his father-in-law instead, Samuel Colt, raising his sons not to be Men-of-Letters, but to be hunters. To hunt down demons, because demons had incited the bleeding of Kansas that resulted in Mary Winchester’s death._

_Dean remembers the unending resentment John held for the Men of Letters, the men who never came to his aid when he needed them most. Dean never thought the Men of Letters had had a bigger picture in mind._

_And Dean still has nightmares about the day his father died. Dean had drawn the devil’s trap so carefully, and yet the demon had managed to manipulate a trickle of water to break a line – just one line._

_Dean had exorcised the demon of course, but not before it was too late. Not before it managed to leave two dead hosts by Dean’s feet._

“Dean.”

Dean was jostled from his dreams in an instant, blinking blearily in the afternoon light.

He sat up and turned to where the voice had come from. Castiel was sitting cross-legged on the ground, eyes intently fixed on him.

“Were you dreaming?” he asked. Dean wondered if it was a trick of the light or if the angel had the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Were you watching me sleep?” he retorted instead of answering the question. Cas only looked at him. Unsettled, Dean rose to pack up the makeshift camp they’d made in the small hours of the night when he had been tired enough to fall off Impala.

Dean was happy for the extra provisions and the new, small tent Bobby had provided. They were all packed on Castiel’s horse, since Impala was loaded with all of Dean’s kitchenware, salt, holy water and other supernatural accessories.

He smiled inwardly and patted the rump of the black horse affectionately. Thanks to all that he had never set foot on a train in his life – they wouldn’t let him bring his things, or his horse. And there was no way he was going to Wyoming without either.

“Let’s get moving,” Dean said and hopped into the saddle, the act as natural as breathing. He turned Impala around to find Castiel standing by his gray mare, hat in hand and a lost look on his face.

“Don’t tell me an angel of the Lord can’t sit up,” Dean scoffed, expertly holding the reins in one hand while letting the other rest on his thigh.

Castiel gave him a withering glare.

“It just seems like an outdated and impractical way of getting around,” he said disapprovingly. “Flying is much more effective.”

“Well, there ain’t any birds to fly on hereabouts,” Dean replied. “So get up so we can get moving.”

Castiel did as he was bid, gracefully despite his reluctance. Dean decided to show off a little bit, and had Impala back a few steps and took one step to the side, so that they came up by Castiel’s side.

“So what _can_ you do, angel?” he asked. “If your wings are clipped?”

If looks could kill, he would have fallen off the horse in a heartbeat. Castiel straightened up on the horse, mimicking Dean’s way of holding the reins, and moved his gaze towards the horizon.

“I remember the dawn of humanity,” he said, “I know the name of every single thing under the sky and I know we’re heading north-northwest towards Mount Oread and I can sense that _you”_ – he paused to look at Dean – “are afraid of something that lies ahead.”

“What do I have to be afraid of?” Dean scoffed, “the only thing ahead of us is Kansas, and then s’more Kansas until we get to the river.”

“You’re afraid of memories,” Castiel stated, and it hit a bit too close to home.

“Memories can’t hurt you,” Dean bit back and dug his heels into Impala’s flanks and set her off in a trot.

Dean half hoped Castiel would fall behind, but his horse automatically followed the bigger Impala just a few steps behind.

Three days passed in mostly uncomfortable silence. Dean found out that Castiel needed to eat, and that this came as a surprise for him. He almost laughed the first time the angel needed to take a piss, because the look on his face had been one of pure frustration and, to Dean, of pure gold.

They didn’t speak of the saddle sores.

They came in sight of the town of Lawrence on a slightly cloudy day. Dean set his jaw as he turned his horse towards it.

“We need to go get more provisions if we don’t want to stop to hunt on our way to Fort Kearny.”

Castiel said nothing, and Dean gave a huff before urging Impala on.

He didn’t go all the way into town, though. Just outside the gathering of houses, to the south where they had been coming from, was a lonely cottage, with ivy crawling all over its wooden walls. There were puffs of smoke erupting from the chimney, and Dean could smell something delicious in the making.

Dean hopped off Impala easily while Castiel dismounted more dignified and slowly.

“Are we to get provisions here?” Castiel asked, somewhat doubtfully.

“Nah, this is just a visit I have to make,” Dean replied and tied Impala to the small hand railing on the porch. Castiel followed his lead, leaving his horse beside Dean’s and trailed after him up the steps to the door.

Dean raised his fist and paused for a fraction before knocking.

After only two heartbeats, the door was thrown open by a large, black woman clad in an apron, with her big, curly black hair in a neat bun on the top of a head. Her expression was happy, and she didn’t seem surprised to see them.

“Dean Winchester, well I never!”

Before Dean could greet her, he was enveloped in a bone-crushing hug that squeezed the air out of his lungs.

“Hi, Missouri,” he choked out, hands flailing awkwardly as he tried to hug her back.

“I was nearly beginning to think you were never coming back, you scruffy-looking thing! You could at least send some letters once in a while boy. Let an old woman know you’re all right.”

“Sorry, Missouri,” he said earnestly and took off his hat as soon as the woman let go of him, “I figured you’d know, y’know, if anything happened to me.”

“Damn, son! Of course I’d _know_ , but that don’t mean I don’t like hearing from you boys,” the woman named Missouri scolded. She then looked from Dean to Castiel and she pursed her lips.

“Hold on now, that ain’t your little brother, and I did not see him coming.”

Dean was about to make some sort of introduction, when she pushed past him to grab the angel’s shoulders.

“Well, God be my witness, this man here ain’t of this earth,” she said, astonishment coloring her voice and making her brown eyes widen.

“Uh, yeah, this is Cas,” Dean supplied unhelpfully.

“I am Castiel, angel of the Lord,” Castiel said truthfully and Dean held his breath. But Missouri laughed a big, hearty laugh and clapped him on the back.

“The Lord does have a sense of humor after all – this is a true godsend if I ever saw one. Come on in please, the pie just came from the oven.”

“No, _you_ are the godsend, ma’am, bless you!” Dean said as he stepped inside the warm little cottage, swiping the hat from Castiel’s head and handing it to him.

“Courtesy,” he mumbled to a confused-looking Cas, before following Missouri into her sparse but cozy kitchen.

“I don’t have any coffee. I was just going to go down to the market to get some more,” Missouri was saying as she took out plates to put on the table together with a steaming, heavenly apple pie. “I figure you boys may want to tag along when I go, to get the things you need for your journey.”

Dean had long since stopped asking how Missouri knew things. Of all the psychics he had encountered on his travels, Missouri was the best and the most easy-going of the bunch – she never made her knowledge into something mystic.

“Dig in, you look starved,” she commanded, and Dean didn’t have to be told twice. He sat down and cut three pieces of pie and took the biggest for himself. Missouri laughed and put the other pieces on plates as well, handing one to Castiel, who timidly sat down beside Dean.

“So tell me, angel,” Missouri said to him as he was poking the pie with a spoon. “How come you’re walking the Earth among us mortals?”

“The demons are trying to open a Devil’s Gate, and I have to stop them,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation.

“You alone?” Missouri said, and Dean’s mouth was too full of pie for him to interject. “That seems like a mighty big deed to do all by yourself. Dean here knows a thing or two about not letting other people help; maybe he can tell you it’s a bad idea, too.”

“Hey,” he protested and Missouri glared at him until he shut his mouth and swallowed the pie.

“Dean is helping me,” Castiel supplied, eyeing the piece of pie on his spoon. “His brother is in league with the demon attempting to open the gate.”

“Actually, it’s more like this angel here is helping _me_ ,” Dean interrupted. “Since he can’t access his angelic powers or whatever, we need to do this the old-fashioned way. And he doesn’t even know his way around a horse.”

“Without me you would have been lost in the middle of the wilderness,” Castiel reminded Dean somewhat harshly and put the spoon down. Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Missouri interrupted him.

“All right, all right, that’s quite enough! Dean, when you’ve finished the pie, I’d be eternally grateful if you could do something about the water pump in the back yard. It gets stuck every now and then.”

“Don’t the townspeople help you?” Dean said, half rising from the chair. “Don’t tell me they’re getting all hostile with you again, after all you’ve done…”

Missouri chuckled.

“They know I keep their babies from dying and themselves from getting sick, and so long as I don’t give them a reason to believe I know more than I should, they have no reason to think I’m a witch. They do help. I just haven’t gotten around to ask someone to fix the pump.”

“You have not entered a contract with a demon and thus you aren’t a witch,” Castiel said, tilting his head. “Why would they accuse you of being that?”

“Oh honey, all it takes is people being suspicious or a little jealous. I’m harmless enough, a poor black woman from south of the border, trying to make ends meet. But if I were you I’d be careful in places like these, to show how much you know the people that don’t know you.”

“They might seem friendly,” Dean agreed darkly. “But if something makes ‘em turn against you, you’re done for. I’ll go have a look at that pump of yours Missouri, and then we need to get supplies. Wyoming’s next.”

“Oh boy, you’re going to need more than’ll fit on two horses for that trip,” Missouri laughed and fiddled with her apron as she followed Dean to the back door.

“We can get mules at Fort Kearny.” Dean bowed his head to look down at the woman. “I really don’t want to stay here more than I have to, ma’am.”

She smiled and put a hand on Dean’s cheek.

“You sweet little boy. Stay the night at least. There’s a long journey ahead of you.”

Dean nodded, and he would never admit it, but he leaned into her touch for a heartbeat before trudging out the door.

Missouri turned to Castiel, who still sat at the table with his hat in his lap.

“I sure hope you can be his guardian angel, and that he can be yours. You both sure need it.”

“He is only human,” Castiel said. “He cannot protect me.”

“Honey, you’re not far from human yourself. You’re becoming more and more human every day. But you don’t want to go back to being an angel before you stop this, I can tell,” Missouri sniffed and put her hands on her hips.

Castiel looked down at his hands.

“You’re right.”

“You’re afraid they won’t let you stop it.”

“I have to stop it, or one of my brothers or sisters will die in my place, and demons will roam the earth.”

Missouri gave him a sad little smile.

“I know you have to, and Dean has to, too. I’m just saying neither of you have to do it alone.”

They did spend the night after Dean fixed the water pump and after buying provisions on the market – Castiel on the couch and Dean on the floor with quilts and pillows underneath.

Just before dawn, Dean and Castiel both left without saying good-bye. Dean didn’t worry about it, as Missouri probably already knew that they were going, and that he was thankful for the pie.

“There’s something about this town,” Castiel said as Lawrence was almost behind them, the sound of hooves against packed earth the only thing disturbing the early morning peace.

“Bad things happened here,” the angel continued when Dean frowned, but made no comment.

“Bad things happen all over,” Dean snapped. “So you don’t have to sound all high and mighty about it.”

He risked a glance at the angel, who was regarding him with mild puzzlement.

“Bad things happened _to you_ there,” he clarified.

“What, are you psychic too and can read my mind now?” Dean growled and turned his head forward. The wide open grassland of the Oregon Trail opened up before them and it promised to be a good day for travelling.

“I can’t read minds, I can only sense them. And yours is in turmoil. It has been ever since we arrived at Missouri’s house.”

“Then stop it! It was bad enough believing God could see everything I did as a child, and I don’t want his servant snooping around in my noggin’!”

The angel gave an indignant huff and twisted a little in the saddle to become more comfortable.

“I can no more stop sensing your mind than you can stop smelling of horse.”

“I don’t smell of horse!”

“Your sense of smell has been dulled. You should wash more often.”

“I bet you don’t smell like roses either.”

“What is it about that town that troubles you?”

“What’s it to you?”

In a move that surprised Dean completely, Castiel brought his horse in a tight turn, just before Impala. The black horse reared, and her rider, taken unawares, was jostled so violently he was halfway off the horse before he could grab the neck to steady himself.

“What the hell?” Dean shouted as soon as he recovered his breath, scrambling to get upright.

Castiel glared down at him impassively.

“We need to get to the Devil’s Gate so you can save your brother and so that I may finally be free of this flesh. We need to cooperate to survive, and I would wish to know more about you so that I may know what kind of trouble to expect.”

 “We grew up in Lawrence, and that’s where my mother was killed by a demon,” Dean said after a moment. “Then, when Sam had left to become a Man of Letters, we came back to Lawrence, my dad and I. We trapped a demon there, but I was sloppy and it got loose. Killed my dad, too. Happy?

Dean swallowed, not wanting to admit how much these few sentences hurt. He looked ahead, and was startled when Cas put a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Dean would’ve sworn there was sympathy in those otherworldly blue eyes.

“For what? Bringing it up or for not stopping it?”

The venom in his voice surprised Dean as much as it did Cas.

“Angels are warriors of God, not guardians,” Cas retorted. His tone was measured but something – anger or a threat – was lurking just beneath the surface.

“Yeah, well, where was God that night when demons burned down our house, huh? He could have sent an angel to smite them – or is the war against hell not holy enough for you?”

Dean turned his head towards Cas and looked straight into his eyes, not caring if he so chose to strike him down from the saddle again.

To his surprise, Castiel turned is gaze away.

“God… left,” he said.

After a short pause, Dean blurted out,

“What?”

Castiel sighed and looked up at the sky.

“Our Father left us millennia ago. He doesn’t interfere, not anymore. He doesn’t _send us_ anywhere.”

“God is _dead_?”

“No. He is only absent.”

“Well, figures.”

Feeling deflated after his outburst of anger, Dean fell silent.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered after a while, raising his gaze skyward. “What’s done is done. I guess now that I know angels exist, I can believe that they’re in Heaven together.”

He threw a glance at Castiel and added,

“Not that I’m one hundred percent sure you are an angel. You might just be some psychic priest with delusions of grandeur.”

Even as he said it, his hand found his chest, where he had been stabbed and where he had seen the celestial stitches with his own eyes.

There was a slight upturning of lips, but Cas didn’t look at him.

“I have no need to prove myself to you, ye of little faith.”

And before Dean knew it, he was smiling, too.

When they made camp that evening, Dean felt that some of the tension between them had dissipated. It didn’t mean he was completely at ease with this supernatural being whose existence he’d doubted a week ago, but he felt easy enough to try to start a conversation.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” he began somewhat stiffly as he unloaded the horses. Cas was busy trying to raise the tent, as rain clouds were moving in on the evening sky.

“Is that something you don’t do often?” Castiel said and Dean had opened his mouth to reply before the sentence registered in his brain.

“Are you… was that a joke?”

Cas sighed and let the tent fall together in a miserable heap.

“What have you been thinking about, Dean?” he said, with a tone of slightly condescending patience.

Dean sighed as well and went over to put up the tent.

“That if this whole thing - I mean, if you’re stuck in that body that can die – that will die if I die – isn’t there a way for you to get out of that body? And stop Ruby that way – as a full-blown angel?”

Castiel didn’t say anything for a while. Dean finished setting up the tent before turning towards him. Then his eyes moved up to meet Dean’s.

“I don’t want to take the risk,” he said simply. Dean frowned and moved away towards Castiel’s horse to unload the cooking equipment and relieve the horse of the saddle.

“The risk of what?”

“Of the ritual going wrong. It’s… an angel being trapped in a human vessel isn’t something that happens every day. I am not certain that I know how to reverse this spell. I would want to look into the matter before we try anything.”

Dean turned his head to look at him, but he in turn was facing away.

“And we do not have the time to do that carefully. So I’d rather not do it at all until we have the situation under control.”

Dean had this odd feeling that the angel was lying to him. But Castiel did look concerned and met his gaze steadily.

“I guess we’d better not risk things,” Dean agreed. “Would be useful to have angel powers at hand, though.”

There was silence as Dean got a fire going and pulled out two cans of beans to put over the fire to cook.

“Here’s dinner, Cas” he said and threw them at Castiel, who caught them expertly. Dean was impressed by his reflexes and sat down by the fire beside him to arrange the cooking.

“You seemed oddly concerned about Missouri’s well-being when you thought the townspeople weren’t looking out for her,” Castiel said out of the blue, when Dean handed him his can of beans a while later.

Dean smiled a humorless smile.

“What can I say? I know that people like her are easily accused if things go wrong.”

“People like her?”

Dean sighed and squinted at Castiel.

“I knew a girl,” he admitted. “Cassie. There was a hunt in her town, up in South Dakota. Me and dad was taking care of it – we, uh, became close. Cassie and me, I mean.”

“You loved her,” Cas stated, and Dean flinched.

“Whatever,” he grunted, neither denying nor confirming it. He didn’t think himself capable of either. “We managed to get the poltergeist in the end, but uh, a lot of people had died already and… Well, somehow they thought they’d blame her. The black girl who knew these strangers in town.”

Dean inhaled deeply, staring into the can of beans he had cupped his hands around.

“Dad and I barely escaped. I later heard Cassie was hanged.”

“If hunting brings you so much pain,” Castiel said slowly, “why do you keep doing it?”

Dean snorted and tipped the can to his mouth.

“Because someone has to,” he said through a mouthful of beans. “And because we can’t let those demons out of the gate.”

When Dean finally looked at Cas, he was staring out into the night sky. Dean had to admit, telling him about Cassie had felt good, little as he had actually talked about her. It was just nice that someone else knew about her.

“Night, Cas,” he said as he rolled himself into his quilt inside the tent.

“Good night, Dean,” Cas responded, his back already turned to Dean where he lay.

That night, Dean dreamt of an _endless sea of black. It enveloped him in complete silence and a cold that numbed him down to his non-existent bones. It would have choked him if he had lungs to draw breath in – he would have screamed if he’d had vocal chords._

_Then a ray of light blinded him but he had no eyes to close. A red hot brand was seared into a shoulder he didn’t have as he was gripped tight. His body was rebuilt, atom by atom and the sensation of pain was so pure it felt almost like pleasure._

_There was a sound, like a song; a clear tone that reverberated through his newly built body and suddenly_ Dean woke up with a start, breathing heavily.

He swallowed and looked at the sleeping form of Castiel beside him. He then turned over with the uneasy feeling that his dream had, in fact, been a memory.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geographically it makes little sense to go from Dodge City via Lawrence if the destination is Wyoming. Please pretend that Lawrence is a lot more to the west in this universe.
> 
> Fort Kearny was actually put out of commission in 1871 due to the transcontinental railroad – in other words: don’t cite this work of fanfiction as the source of your historical knowledge.


	6. Little Blue River

* * *

For the last few days the rolling grasslands of the sunflower state had only been interrupted by steep banks filled with spring floods, leading down to the mighty Kansas River. Most of the time they travelled in the river valley as it provided an easy guide to follow. The side streams were usually easily crossed, the water only reaching up to the knees of the horses, though twice they had had to dismount and lead them over while getting water up to their necks.

Soon Dean started to recognize various landmarks, and one morning, after Cas was packing away the coffee pot (the angel had acquired a taste for the black muck, after overcoming the initial dislike at Bobby’s) he sniffed and said,

“We should be reaching Topeka today – I figured we’d try to find someone willing to take us across the river. It’d do us good to look respectable, so how ‘bout we shave that scruff off your face?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows and touched the black beard growth on his chin.

“It does itch a little,” he admitted. “And if you think it’ll further our cause, I agree to shaving.”

“Great,” Dean said and started digging in his saddle bags for his shaving kit. He could do with a shave himself. He opened up the kit and flipped open the razor, testing its sharpness against a callused thumb.

“Uh,” said Dean, suddenly lost. “This is… it’s kind of a tricky business if you’ve never done it before.”

Castiel’s eyes came up to meet his.

“You are welcome to show me,” he said calmly, if somewhat frostily.

“Right,” Dean said and swallowed. He looked down and started to mix the shaving foam.

“If you could just fill that bowl with water?”

Castiel complied, picking up the bowl and went over to the stream they were camping by and kneeled to scoop up water. He returned to find Dean on his knees by the burnt-out remains of their campfire. Castiel placed the bowl beside him and sank to his knees too, gracefully re-arranging his legs into a cross-legged position.

Dean lathered his brush with a generous amount of foam, turned so he was facing the other man and lifted it to Castiel’s face.

“So, uh, I’m gonna…” he did a little brushing motion and then promptly started to cover Castiel’s face from ear to chin to other ear.

Dean smiled a little to himself when he was done with the first step. Castiel looked ridiculous with his chin and cheeks covered in white lather. The smile faltered a bit as Dean noticed that the pink of his lips was starkly enhanced by the white foam. This in turn made Dean aware of the full form of them, the impossibly perfect curve of the upper lip and the strangely small and straight lower lip.

Dean cleared his throat and put the foam away, picking up the razor.

“Tilt your head up a little,” he said with a voice lower than he’d anticipated. Castiel did as he was bid, hands calmly placed on his knees.

The hunter cleared his throat again and gently clasped Castiel’s chin between thumb and forefinger to steady both himself and Castiel. He’d only done this to Sam once, when they were younger and still hunting with their father. Sam had broken two fingers on his right hand and Dean had shaved him maybe twice until the hand healed.

This was nothing like it though, Dean reflected as he put the steel to skin. Shaving Sam had been a chore among many, something he did on his father’s orders (because it was bad enough Sam didn’t keep his mop under control, like hell he’d add bushy sideburns to that) and as a way to tease his little brother, too.

This, he thought as the razor left its first stripe of bare skin it its wake, was a great deal tenser. This was like having the angel’s life – _an angel’s life_ – in his hands. Which admittedly he did have, had had ever since the angel resurrected him. Just as the angel held his.

It was just… more tangible, having this life literally under his palms.

Castiel kept completely still – the only thing moving was the heaving of his chest. His eyes were half-closed, eyelashes a black outline against his cheek; the very image of serenity.

The only noise around them was the soft intake and exhale of breath, the scraping of metal to skin and the sound of wind rustling grass. Every now and then Dean rinsed the razor in the bowl of water, and the procedure settled into a smooth and uncomplicated rhythm.

When the cheeks and chin were bare and smooth with only traces of foam left, Dean pushed Castiel’s chin a little higher and to the side.

“This is the real tricky part,” he explained, the sudden sound of his voice grating to his own ears. Carefully and as gently as he could manage, he stroked the razor against the soft, vulnerable skin of Cas’ throat, just under the jawline. His hand didn’t shake, but he felt like they ought to.

When Dean was done, he couldn’t help but rest his gaze on Castiel’s throat, just for a moment, where he could see the small twitch of a pulse. This celestial being that had brought him back from the dead was now definitely as mortal as he.

Though, seeing as Dean himself had been brought back from the dead, maybe Castiel was only mortal for a given value of mortal. Dean smiled a little at the thought.

“All right, you’re all done. Wipe the foam off with your sleeve or something, and hold up this mirror so I can shave myself.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said earnestly, looking into Dean’s eyes and Dean sort of jumped at that. He really wasn’t used to kindness, he realized. Cas kept catching him off guard with his polite remarks.

“Just keep the mirror steady,” Dean grumbled and promptly felt like an oaf. He looked at himself in the mirror, the same old familiar set of the jaw, the freckles dotting a nose that had been broken in the past, full, almost feminine, red lips and moss-colored eyes that Missouri kept telling him were the exact shape of his mother’s. He quickly looked away to dip the brush into the foam.

Shaving himself was a quick affair, routine governing most of it. When he was done, he meticulously rinsed the razor to dry it on his sleeve and packed away all the utensils.

“So, Topeka next,” Dean informed him as they were packed up and astride their horses.

“What are we waiting for?” Cas said and set his horse off at a brisk walking pace, and Dean made a face before following him.

“What is it, Cas?” Dean called back. Cas was several feet behind him, and he only noticed because Impala had started to throw her head about and drag her steps.

“My horse,” Cas replied. “Something is wrong.”

He slipped out of the saddle – the movement was already smoother after only two weeks in the saddle, Dean noticed.

“She’s limping,” Cas said with his hand on the right foreleg of the mare as Dean came up to them.”

Dean swung off his own horse and lifted the leg and expertly put it between his own.

“Just a stone in her hoof – look,” he said and started digging it out with thumb and forefinger.

Castiel looked on attentively, and soon they were on their way again.

“Put on your hat or you’ll get too much sun,” Dean ordered as they rode on side by side, but Castiel shook his head.

“I like it when there’s nothing between my head and the sky. Feels almost like flying when the wind is in my hair.”

Dean didn’t push it.

They reached Topeka around noon. Dean knew precisely where to go – it was a small, nameless bar in the outskirts, and Dean knew they could leave their horses outside together with three other horses without worry.

“This is a hunter place,” he explained to Castiel as they entered the establishment, “the risk of getting shot at ain’t so big here, but people aren’t exactly talkative either.”

“I have no wish to engage in discussion with these people,” Cas murmured as they were inside, and Dean choked on a laugh.

“Hey, no need to get nasty,” he shot back at Cas as he threw a glance around the dimly lit room occupied by three men, one of which had a painted beauty on his knee. She was painted to look beautiful, yes, but Dean saw that the years hadn’t been particularly kind on her. He resisted the urge to tip his hat at her.

He then sauntered over to the counter, where a lanky, odd-faced bartender was tending to his business.

“Hey, what’re y’all having?” he said and gave Dean a smile that was a bit too wide for comfort.

“Something easy,” Dean answered, subtly painting a small pentagram on his lapel with his middle finger. The bartender’s smile became less forced in an instant and he pulled out two glasses.

“Oh, thank God,” he said, “I thought I would have to chase you out of here – so you here on a hunt?”

“Nah, just passing by,” Dean replied, “Dean Winchester. This here’s Cas.”

“Garth,” replied the bartender and pulled out glasses from beneath the counter.

Dean made a face – he thought he might have had a hard time pulling off the name Cas, but _Garth_? He cleared his throat, but before he could say anything a low and dull voice addressed him.

“Winchester? One of you was passing by couple o’ days ago.”

Dean turned to look, and locked gazes with a man with black skin and a weathered face. He was clad in dusty, travel-worn clothes with mud splatters up to his elbows. Something in his eyes made the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck rise. He sat down, one stool between them, and leaned in a little.

“Long hair, the size of a buffalo?” he asked, nodding for Garth to pour them a glass of beer each. Castiel sat down beside Dean, fiddling with the cuffs of his coat, apparently a little put off.

“Yeah,” was Dean’s curt answer as the other hunter accepted his pint of beer.

“He come by here?” he continued, trying not to sound incredulous and took a sip of his beer as calmly as he could.  Cas was aware that the situation was delicate, so he remained quiet and regarded them both carefully.

“Nah. He was passing through town with some lady in tow. They were hurrying like they had hell hounds on their heels, barely stopped to say hello when I greeted ‘em. They wanted to buy some hunting supplies.”

“I don’t believe they were followed by hell hounds,” Castiel interjected with a whisper in Dean’s ear. “That wouldn’t make sense.”

Dean threw a scowl his way before returning his attention to the other hunter.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Gordon Walker,” he said and showed his teeth in what could barely constitute as a smile. Dean tugged at the corner of his lips in response.

“It’s ‘cause I walk a lot,” the other hunter continued and tipped the pint and swallowed a mouthful of liquid.

“Yeah, I figured,” Dean said warily. “So did you see where he was heading?”

“You trying to find him or what? Ain’t he your own brother?”

“Doesn’t mean I see him a lot. Just curious to see if he’s going in my direction.”

“I didn’t see where he was going – I mean, he was heading down to the river, but that could mean anything.”

“Right, well,” Dean said and raised his glass. “Thanks anyway.”

“So where are _you_ headed?” Walker asked. Dean was close to choking on his mouthful of beer, but managed to swallow and cough out,

“Oh, just north. To see some family in Nebraska.”

“Together with your, uh, friend?” Garth piped in, cleaning some empty glasses with his grease-stained apron.

Something in the bartender’s voice made Dean turn to him with a frown.

“Yeah. Cas is from the East Coast, he’s never seen the Great Plains.” He lied easily, but he felt nervous.

“Well, if you and your _friend”_ –Walker put an unduly emphasis on the word, which made Dean all the more irritated – “meet up with that brother of yours, be sure to tell him hi from me.”

With that, he finished his drink and got up.

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Dean called, as Gordon walked out the door. He then met Cas’ gaze and shrugged a little, before looking back at the door.

“Is there anything else I can get you gents?” Garth asked and some of the tension in the air dissipated.

“Yeah, something to eat before we’re on our way,” Dean replied absent-mindedly, eyes still fixed on the door.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asked when Garth disappeared. Dean jumped a little, not expecting him to lean in quite so close.

“Something about him rubs me the wrong way,” Dean murmured back.

“There was a distinct air of malice about him,” Cas agreed and Dean couldn’t help but grin a little. He wondered if he wasn’t starting to like this angel, after all.

“Good to know Sam’s only a couple of days ahead,” he continued, deliberately not voicing the strange concern about Sam apparently following Ruby of his own free will.

Cas gave a non-committal hum and Garth returned with their food. The meal wasn’t exactly high-class, but after days living on beans and beef jerky, it was heaven in Dean’s mind.

They crossed the Kansas River that afternoon, on a ferry willing to carry two horses with their riders. Dean paid the ferryman and they set off to repeat the experience at the Wakarusa and Vermillion rivers; holding true to the Oregon Trail.

As they travelled by the Little Blue River, aiming for Nebraska, Dean felt that they were settling into some sort of amicable rhythm. They didn’t talk much, but when they did the conversation was enjoyable. One afternoon after they set camp he attempted to teach Cas how to make flapjacks – the attempt ended with Cas having flipped the pancake onto his face, and with Dean doubled over with laughter.

They decided to sleep with only the stars above them – it was a cloudless night and their camp was well secured from the wind. Dean noticed Cas always slept better this way – if they slept in the tent he tended to cast about and turn around a lot before he could settle into a few hours of restless sleep.

Either way, Cas didn’t snore like Sam or his father had used to, for which Dean was eternally grateful when he curled up to sleep.

The sound of someone clearing their throat jostled Dean awake. He sat up and blinked sleep from his eyes in an instant, only to find himself staring into the barrel of a rifle.

The man holding the rifle was none other than Gordon Walker. He was a shadow outlined against the starry sky, but the remaining embers of their campfire illuminated the whites of his eyes and the lazy grin that was spread over his face.

“Howdy, Winchester,” he drawled. Beside him, a white man was holding a big knife against Castiel’s throat, and his hands were obviously bound behind his back. Dean ground his teeth together as he glared up at the hunter.

“No need to get violent,” he said carefully, “we’re willing to share anything we have. If hunters can’t trust each other, then who can we trust?”

Walker threw his head back in laughter.

“I feel truly sorry for you if you ever trusted a hunter, Winchester. Besides, the thing we want you to share is information, and you seemed pretty unwilling to share anything of the sort back in Topeka.”

“You’re right. Hunters are bastards, all of us, and you seem to be the worst of the lot, you and your partner here.”

“Pastor Kubrick, at your service,” the white man called. Dean couldn’t make out much of his face, but he seemed to be a sleazy type. The southern lilt was apparent in his voice, and Dean could hear rather than see his malicious grin.

“So what do you want?” Dean spat, closing his hands into fists in frustration.

Walker jerked his head, and Kubrick threw Cas to the side. He was unable to cushion his fall as his hands were bound behind his back, and he emitted a low grunt as the ground knocked air from his lungs. Dean made a violent move towards him, and Walker’s rifle came up immediately.

“Bind him up,” he ordered, and Kubrick obliged with all too much glee, in Dean’s opinion. There wasn’t much he could do, so he allowed his hands to get bound with rough rope – in front of him, contrary to Cas – and thrown beside Cas, who had managed to sit upright.

Kubrick tightened the final knot, leaving a good long string of rope hanging from Dean’s wrists. He tugged at it experimentally, pulling Dean forward and making him fall over with a curse. He had an unpleasant image of being dragged behind a horse, tied to the saddle with that rope.

“It’s amazing how easy it is to sneak up on people when you’ve got no horses,” Walker commented in a conversational tone. Kubrick agreed while checking the edge of his mean-looking knife, which was thin and straight and as long as his underarm. The rope was still in his hand, so Dean didn’t dare start pulling at the restraints in an attempt to get free. Instead he struggled to get on his knees.

“I think we should take their horses when we’re done with them, though,” he said, and Dean had to clamp down on a shout of outrage. Like hell these assholes were going to put a hand on his baby! Impala neighed worriedly, like she understood what was going on. She and Castiel’s horse were loosely tied to a rock by the riverside and seemed completely unharmed from what Dean could see.

He started surreptitiously struggling with his ties, as was his habit. _I really shouldn’t get into these sorts of situations this often_ , he thought ruefully, but he stilled when the cold pipe of Walker’s rifle forced his chin up. Dean reluctantly met his icy stare.

“Now,” Gordon said coldly, “Kubrick here has sort of a sixth sense…”

“A blessing from our Lord,” Kubrick agreed and Dean could see him making the cross sign from the corner of his eyes. He could also see Cas rolling his eyes and had to suppress a grin at this.

“So when he saw your brother with that spawn of hell on his heels, he figured, that can’t be right.”

“Their union is an unholy one,” Kubrick said and did the cross sign twice. “They have lain with each other like the very embodiment of sin.”

“Bet you’re jealous, aren’t you? Ain’t ever even seen the stockings on a girl,” Dean sneered in a vain attempt to push buttons and find weaknesses. He got a blow to the head by the butt of the rifle as a reward and toppled down again. Dean could feel Cas tense beside him and wanted to tell him not to do anything stupid, but his mouth was filled with blood because he had bitten his own tongue, and his vision was filled with stars.

“What we want to know is where this brother of yours is heading,” Walker explained slowly, “and how we can kill him.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Dean said hurriedly, trying to focus his eyes and get upright again. “Sam’s been kidnapped by the demon, she’s _using_ him!”

“Son, he seemed mighty happy about being used,” the so-called pastor drawled, and Dean could feel a vein in his jaw twitch.

“Sam isn’t a monster,” he gritted out. “We don’t kill _people_.”

“Your brother has lain with a demon,” Walker spat out. “He isn’t human anymore and we’re going to take them both out. Now, where are they heading?”

“Go screw yourself,” Dean replied and braced himself for another beating. To his surprise and horror, Kubrick yanked Cas up by his undershirt collar instead and put the blade to his throat again.

“Let him go,” Dean barked. He knew that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill Cas to get Dean to talk, since they didn’t know that would kill Dean as well. Dean didn’t know if he feared more for Cas or for himself.

“Does this loosen up your tongue?” Kubrick said with a small chuckle that made Dean shudder. “Figured you seemed like deviant – almost as bad as your brother. Sodomy must be in your blood or something.”

The words of the man calling himself a pastor hit a little close to home. Dean felt cold rage well up inside him mixed with the helplessness that paralyzed him. He said nothing, but his thoughts must have been evident on his face, because Walker’s teeth gleamed in a smile.

“C’mon then,” he said. “Cough up, where’s that sinful brother o’ yours? If you don’t talk, the good pastor here won’t hesitate to carve a cross into that poor sod over there.”

“God be my witness,” Kubrick said and put the blade to Castiel’s cheek. Before Dean could react, Cas met his gaze and said,

“Dean, close your eyes.” Just before Dean obeyed, he glimpsed Castiel’s eyes starting to glow white and Kubrick jumping back like he’d been burned.

“Do not take God’s name in vain,” Dean could hear Cas say and then his voice turned into a shrill, high noise that assaulted Dean’s hearing. His eyelids were colored bright red by some bright light for just a moment. There was the sound of Walker’s rifle being fired, and then both the noise and light faded into darkness and silence. Dean’s eyes snapped open.

What he found was Castiel standing with his hands free. Both Kubrick and Walker lay by his feet, and Dean thought he seemed a little out of breath, hands hanging limply at his sides.

“Cas,” he called hoarsely. “Are you all right?”

Castiel didn’t answer and hurried over to Dean instead, kneeling by him.

“What?” said Dean, and noticed only now that there was searing sensation in his right thigh. He touched the leg with his bound hands and they came up wet and sticky. It was too dark to see properly, but Dean knew his hands were red.

“Fuck," he whispered, mind racing. “Cas, you... you go on to Fort Kearny. I'm not gonna be any use like this.”

With the scattershot burning in his thigh, he could imagine he might end up sick from infection. He could barely concentrate through the pain. “Might be too far, honestly, but I don't know what else to do.”

“Shh,” Castiel said curtly and Dean vaguely wondered if he was going into shock. From what he could make out in the gloom, Castiel looked focused and severe, a frown marring his features. He put his hand directly above the bullet wound and Dean held his breath.

“This will hurt,” Castiel said quietly. “Please, keep still.”

Dean nodded even though Cas wasn’t looking at him. He gripped his thigh above the wound with his bound hands and pressed it down on the ground, bracing himself as best he could.

The pain was indescribable, like being branded with a red-hot iron and ice cold at the same time. Dean threw his head back and screamed just to be able to keep his leg still.

And then suddenly, the pain ceased. Dean looked back down, completely out of breath and could see a small, crumpled, black object in Castiel’s bloodstained hand – the bullet. Dean touched his leg carefully, but there was no wound anymore.

“Cas, you-” he didn’t know what to say, and Cas untied his ropes slowly, letting them fall to the side. Dean rubbed his wrists and they both rose simultaneously. It was a good thing they did, because as soon as Cas was upright, he stumbled, and Dean was only just fast enough to catch him.

“Hey, whoah!” he said, supporting Cas with one arm under his armpit and his hand on his shoulder. “What is it, are you hurt?”

“I just used my remaining power to heal you,” he replied and tried to shove Dean away. Dean didn’t budge but he blinked, dumbfounded. Cas breathing was labored, and Dean thought he could see pearls of sweat on his forehead.

“What, you’re out of angel magic?”

“Yes, as you so quaintly put it, I’m out of angel magic. I might as well be human, that’s of how much use I am now.”

“Hey, thanks,” muttered Dean, and threw a look over his shoulder at the bodies of the hunters that had captured them. “Are they dead?”

“Yes. You would be, too, if it wasn’t for our bond,” Cas gritted out, fighting to stand on his own.”

Dean stared at the bodies and realized trails of smoke were rising from them in the cold night air. A wave of nausea overcame him, but he swallowed it down. He leaned Cas on a tree, helping him to slide down into a sitting position.

“I gotta burn the bodies, then,” he said hoarsely. “Never know what might happen otherwise.”

Castiel nodded wearily and leaned his head back against the bark of the tree.

Dean dug a shallow, broad, grave and pushed the bodies of Walker and Kubrick into them, trying not to think about them or Castiel. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, and emptied his whiskey into the grave.

“You were bastards, but maybe you didn’t deserve an ending like that,” he muttered and tipped his hat as he threw in a match. He glanced at Castiel, who seemed to be asleep, still sitting against the tree. He couldn’t believe that slight frame held such lethal power. Dean shuddered in the cold just before dawn, and went to wake him up.

Before they left, Cas picked up Kubrick’s long, thin knife and hid it under his saddlebags. Dean could see that he was shaking when he pulled himself up in the saddle. They set off together, Dean keeping a watchful eye on the angel in case he happened to collapse again.

During the day they paused only sporadically to let their horses rest, eat or drink. For themselves they barely ate – some fruit-cakes made on jam and grasshoppers that Dean kept stuffed in a saddlebag while they paused, and they kept going as soon as they were able.

When they made camp that evening, they silently agreed to sleep in shifts, so that last night’s experiences wouldn’t be repeated. Despite this, neither slept well, and it was during a sullen silence they continued toward Fort Kearny the following day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "a painted beauty" - slang for prostitute.


	7. Freedom Is A Length Of Rope

* * *

Their spirits hadn’t picked up when they reached Fort Kearny a few days later. Cas was irritable, and Dean responded with bitter silence. He kind of missed their banter, but he was damned if he was going to stand another cutting remark about human uselessness. Cas was still weak, but refused to accept any help.

Their stay at the fort was brief. They arrived early afternoon, and Dean made the necessary acquirements, including a mule to carry most of their provisions, while Cas tended to the horses. Dean decided they didn’t want to stay the night, because he didn’t feel like getting rid of lice again.

Before they left, Dean scribbled together three letters. One to send to Bobby to tell him that they were okay (the horses too) and he’d crossed paths with Gordon Walker and pastor Kubrick, if Bobby knew them, and that he shouldn’t mourn their passing. The second letter was to Ellen, telling her that he was coming back up to Wyoming and hinted that Sam might be headed that way as well. He ended it with a small greeting to Jo.

The third one was addressed to Missouri, and contained a short “ _We’re well, except the angel is still sour. Not sure he is a godsend at all, but he did save my life I guess. Thank you for the apple pie._

 _Love,  
Dean_ ”

With barely a greeting to the people at the fort, they left the stock buildings behind them, planning to get a good part of Nebraska behind them during the rest of the day, following the Platte River west.

The mule was tied to Cas’ saddle and thus Cas lagged behind Dean but neither minded this. Dean didn’t want to be subject his mood, and Cas preferred to sulk in solitude. Sometimes a cough from him was carried by the wind to Dean’s ears, but he ignored this.

That night Dean tried to bring the subject up when they set camp by a gathering of trees that protected them from the Platte wind.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked bluntly as he stirred together a soup on some of the food they had acquired at the fort. The angel looked up from where he was sitting in a crouched position on the other side of the campfire.

“The matter?” he said with a strained voice and Dean could tell he was in for it. “The matter is that I am an angel; a celestial wave of intent bound in flesh and bone – the _matter_ is that I am matter and not energy and it gives me a headache. And my clothes chafe. And instead of using angelic force to stop your brother and his demon from killing one of my brothers or sister I have to travel the country like some common human and I don’t know if I will ever regain my angelic powers either.”

“Gee,” Dean muttered gruffly, feeling uneasy. “Sorry I asked. Have some soup, why don’t you?”

Castiel heaved a sigh that turned into a wracking cough. He rose to accept some food, shoulders hunched.

“How do you stand this?” he asked quietly. “How can you stand being so confined to one body?”

Dean snorted and poured soup for the angel and himself.

“It’s all we got,” he said. “And it’s not all bad you know. Bodies can be good. I bet there’s a lot of nice things you never experienced being a wave of God, or whatever.”

“Like what?” Cas said miserably and Dean tapped his spoon to the side of the bowl thoughtfully.

“Like sneezing,” he replied. “Or laughing. I bet you’ve never laughed until you were out of breath.”

“No,” Castiel answered. “Have you?”

Dean was about to chuckle, but it choked on his lips.

“To be honest, it was a while ago,” was his grim reply, and they ate their soup in silence.

Two days later they came upon a small frontier town, a “jumping-off place” where settlers had jumped off the Oregon Trail, Dean explained to Cas.

The sun had begun its descent across a brilliant blue sky when they entered the small town of stock buildings. People were still out and about, and Castiel looked around him wonderingly before asking,

“What are we doing here, Dean?”

He replied only with a worrying grin.

After interning their horses and their mule at a respectable-looking establishment Dean took Cas to a decidedly less respectable-looking establishment.

“I’ll tell you one good thing about having a body,” Dean said after leading the angel into the bordello. “You can have sex. Let’s find you a nice prairie flower and you can tell me bodies are great afterwards, okay?”

“This is a house of sin,” Castiel stated after looking around at the women in various stages of clothing grouped around in the room. Some of them whispered to each other, and Dean caught a giggle. He wondered which of them had been the cause of it.

“Come on, I bet you angels aren’t half as holy as you think you are. Don’t tell me that during all your millennia of existence you never…”

Dean interrupted himself after catching the look on Castiel’s face. He looked intimidated, almost afraid, eyes wider than his usual squint, and there was something naked in his face that made Dean hesitate.

“It’ll be fun,” he insisted, and just then a girl came up to them, her dress falling off one of her shoulders and her stripy, light hair done up in a bun.

“My name’s Sallie,” she said and did a little curtsy. Dean greeted her with a wide grin.

“Sallie, that’s a beautiful name, isn’t it Cas? Sallie, can you be a darling and take care of my friend Cas here – he’s a bit shy,” he said and presented her with a couple of dollar bills. Sallie smiled back and accepted the money as she hooked her arm in Cas’.

“I’ll cure him of his shyness, don’t you fret,” she purred and started leading him away. He threw one last desperate look back at Dean, but he only waved a cheerful good bye and latched onto another girl, presenting herself as Dot.

Dean was just about to get real cozy with Dot when a shrill scream echoed through the dimly lit room. Dean’s hunter instinct went off immediately, and he disentangled himself from the woman and rushed over to the stairs.

Before he had the chance to bound up, Castiel came stumbling down, fruitlessly trying to shield himself against Sallie, who furiously kept hitting him with a shabby pillow. Her kohl-lined eyes had dissolved in black tears and Dean was baffled – but he could hear an authoritative voice calling for an explanation and without pausing to consider his alternatives, he grabbed Cas by his coat sleeve and dragged him out of there.

Well outside and a couple of buildings away, Dean paused to catch his breath, hand still on Castiel’s arm.

“What the hell, man?” he puffed. “What happened?”

“I looked into her eyes and told her that her father didn’t leave them because of her. It was because he wanted to become a postman instead of a farmer,” Castiel said, frowning. “He’s with the Pony Express Company now.”

Dean blinked once. Cas met his eyes, unblinking.

“You... Why the hell would you tell her something like that?”

“It was causing her great distress!” he retorted. “I thought I could help her move on with her life and become happy again.”

Dean held the gaze for a while longer before his face split up in a grin so wide his cheeks hurt.

He started laughing, and couldn’t stop. He laughed, doubled over but still clutching Cas’ arm for support. When he finally managed to straighten up and inhale, he caught a small smile on Castiel’s face. It wasn’t the smile that made Dean’s gut clench, it was the look of wonder on his face.

“Dean,” he said and Dean had to wipe a tear from his eye before he could say,

“Yeah?”

“I want to visit a House of God.”

Dean sort of swallowed a half-laugh and half-questioning noise, but nodded.

“Yeah, okay.”

It wasn’t long before they found the small wooden church since it did rise above the rest of the town, if ever so slightly. Castiel went in without looking back, but Dean stayed outside, awkwardly tipping his hat and scraping his boots against the ground.

He never felt easy in churches. When he and Sam had been younger they’d spent some winters in the care of Pastor Jim back in Minnesota and Dean always fidgeted during mass and escaped the building as soon as he could.

He just couldn’t stand the way people held their breath in the presence of a God he couldn’t believe in.

But now, after waiting a while. he decided to stick his head in. An angel in a church, that had to be something to see, he decided.

The door made a god-awful creaking noise and he winced when he opened it. Taking care to be as quiet as possible, he snuck in and placed himself just beside the door and looked down the aisle as he removed his hat.

It was pretty primitive as far as a temple of God went; the benches were roughly axed from wood and polished by people using them every Sunday. There was a small pulpit at the end, under a big cross that hung on the wall.

Dean could see the back of Castiel’s lowered head, where he was sitting in the front row. He could imagine his hands being clasped and eyes closed in prayer. Dean felt like an intruding presence and made a move to exit when someone else entered, from a door behind the pulpit.

It was a bit silly, Dean decided afterwards, but right then acted on instinct, sliding behind a supporting pillar to remain unseen. It was a gut feeling and maybe he wanted to get out without having to engage in conversation or explain why he was lurking at the back of a church.

He heard Castiel being addressed, and he peeked out behind the pillar to see a man in a priest’s white collar engage the angel in a discussion – he could hear every word thanks to the church acoustics.

“Is there anything I can help you with, my son?”

“No thank you Father. I just wish to speak to God.”

“He is always listening. I will leave you alone with Him then.”

“Thank you, Father, though I’m not so certain he’s even here anymore.”

The priest laughed, and the sound was unnerving to Dean.

“I’m sorry to hear that you think that, but I believe that’s between you and God. I hope He will return to you one day.”

Dean heard the priest leaving, and after only a moment or two, Cas got up as well and padded back down the aisle.

Dean stepped out behind the pillar, and Cas seemed to expect him to be there because he grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the church at once.

“What the hell, man?” Dean said, surprised by the rough handling. Cas cast a look around them before locking his gaze on Dean.

“The priest is not human,” he said in a low voice. Dean started and lifted the hand holding his hat.

“What do you mean, not human? Don’t tell me there’s more of you angels walking the Earth!”

“No,” Castiel replied. “It’s a monster in human form.”

“What kind?” Dean asked, straightening up and putting his hat back on.

Cas frowned.

“I do not know. My powers are still diminished, and his true face was hidden from me. I just know he’s not human.”

“Well, damn.” Dean scratched his neck. “Cas, we don’t have time to stay and find out how to kill this monster – we need to catch up to Sam and Ruby before... Well, at least before they reach Wyoming.”

“It’s a _monster_ , Dean!”  Cas protested. “It has the blood of several people on its hands – not to mention the priest whose face it’s wearing. We can’t let it keep hurting the townspeople.”

“I – ah, fuck it Cas, we ain’t discussing this out here on the street. Let’s find a place to sleep.”

Cas agreed and they interred themselves in a cozy little saloon with not too many lice in the bed sheets.

“All right,” Dean said with a huff and kicked at the bed, “I ain’t staying here longer than necessary. We’re off at first light.”

“Dean.”

He stopped and reluctantly turned around. Castiel didn’t sound angry – he sounded sad and that was about a hundred times worse.

“What?” he said, the word like gravel in his mouth, and put his hands to his hips in an attempt to look as if he was in charge.

“The people in this town are in danger. I can feel it. There is a monster walking among them and I cannot let that continue. I would have thought you felt the same.”

“Well, I do, but we need to find Sam in time to stop him from letting all the demons loose. I would have thought that was important to _you_. I don’t know what they teach you in Heaven, but stopping demons _has_ to be quite high on your priority list.”

Castiel inhaled as if to give a sharp reply, but instead he looked down.

“Heaven teaches us to obey orders. I’ve always only followed orders, Dean, but…”

“But what?” Dean snapped, sounding angrier than he actually felt.

Cas met his eyes for a short moment, something like sadness or maybe hopelessness darkening his gaze.

“I have doubts.  Heaven might want me to stop the demons, it might want me to save the people of this town. I don’t know. All I know is that saving people feels like the right thing to do. Doesn’t it for you?

Dean was stumped. He dragged his hands through his short hair, curling his fingers at his scalp.

“Yeah, but Sam is my little brother. I need to find him and save him. You don’t understand.”

“I do, Dean. I care for my brothers and sisters as well – but I also care for everyone in this town. Will you help me hunt this monster or do I have to do it on my own?”

They locked gazes and stared at each other for a long time, Dean trying to find a crack, some way to bypass the angelic certainty on Castiel’s face, but to no avail. It was Dean who looked away first, with a mumbled,

“Yeah, all right.”

With a sigh and a muttered curse Dean sat down on the worn mattress and pulled something out of his big coat pocket. Cas moved to sit down beside him, eyeing the worn, leather bound journal in Dean’s callused hands with interest.

“So what do we know about this monster?” Dean muttered and flipped the journal open, tapping a finger at the first, yellowed and slightly torn, page. “It can take the form of a human. Did it choose the priest – or has the priest been a monster all his life?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel replied and trailed a finger down the edge of the journal. Dean eyed him and handed it over to him.

“It’s my dad’s. He kept it to record all the monsters he came upon, and other useful information. Why don’t you trawl through it, and I’ll go talk to the people downstairs, see if they know anything.”

Dean bought a pint of beer and started an easy conversation with the young, big-nosed bartender.

He casually led the conversation into the desired topic – the town pastor.

“Yeah, old Bill,” the bartender supplied happily as he served a newcomer his beer. “Poor man’s been all up in arms since the graveyard was robbed.”

“Robbed?” Dean said, not allowing his true interest to color his tone in the slightest, but he straightened up a little all the same. Might have been hunters destroying ghosts – but Dean couldn’t quite piece the information together.

“For sure, we all found three graves dug up and emptied some months ago– musta been some kind of freak on the loose, but what do I know?” the bartender laughed and swiped at a dirty glass with an even dirtier piece of cloth.

“Dang, that sounds strange. But what’s done is done – you say the pastor is upset about it still? Doesn’t the sheriff do anything about it, like trying to find who done it?” Dean was doing his best to keep his amicable face on, but he was fidgeting. He hated tiptoeing.

“Oh, well, I think it’s just the principle of the thing. And there was no trace leading from the graveyard – nothing for the sheriff to do.”

“That’s a shame,” Dean said absent-mindedly, furiously trying to connect the dots or finding another yarn to spin as he lifted the glass to his lips.

“Really, it’s like Bill is another man altogether now. The recent deaths haven’t made things better, either.”’

Dean almost choked on his beer and managed to splutter out,

“There’s been deaths?”

“Oh yeah – fourteen all in all. Something about this summer struck us hard. Bless the pastor, he’s been holding fantastic masses and burials and everything.”

“But what caused the deaths?” Dean took a sip of his beer to stop himself from asking too much.

“Accidents, mostly. A few sicknesses. There’s just been a lot lately,” the bartender replied with a shrug. “I suppose the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Dean only snorted into his beer in reply.

After finishing his drink, he went back to the small, shoddy room he shared with Castiel. The angel was sitting in the exact same position Dean left him in, still hunched over John Winchester’s journal.

“Your father had beautiful handwriting,” was the first thing he said, once again stopping Dean in his tracks, throwing him completely off.

“Yeah,” Dean said hesitantly, “some things Henry taught him stuck, I guess.”

Castiel looked up, the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. Dean’s lips twitched in response as he sat down beside him, the bed dipping precariously under their combined weight.

“I talked to the bartender downstairs. There’s been unusually many deaths after an extensive grave robbery two months ago. I have an idea of what it might be, but…”

“A ghoul,” Castiel interrupted, and deftly flipped to the right page in John Winchester’s journal and cited, “It will dig up graves to eat the dead. They can be killed only by decapitation or the destruction of their heads. They can shapeshift, appearing human by taking the form of the last person they devoured. Note: Ghouls are not affected by silver or holy water.”

Dean slapped his own thigh and grinned.

“All right!” he said, “Let’s wait for nightfall, you grab that big knife of yours and we’ll go chopping some fake priest’s head off.”

Castiel nodded and let his fingers trace the lettering in the journal. Dean followed their movements, suddenly entranced by the slender fingers attached to the broad, tan hand. He cleared his throat and took off his hat and put it in his lap.

“We should get some shuteye before that, we need to leg it as soon as the job’s done.”

Castiel eyed the bed they were sitting on, and Dean found himself swallowing nervously, hoping that the angel couldn’t sense his thoughts.

“Maybe I should watch out when you sleep. It seems to be quite a – _tight fit_ , as you’d call it,” Castiel said, the unfamiliar phrase rolling uncomfortably off his tongue.

“We – especially you – need the sleep,” Dean insisted, while simultaneously cursing himself for insisting. But the circles under Cas’ eyes were dark, and his face held a sickly pallor under the attained tan. “We’re safe here and we can both fit here just fine, back to back.”

As he said it, a big yawn escaped him. Castiel looked like he was about to argue, when he yawned himself, looking mighty surprised by and upset about it. Dean kicked off his boots and put his feet up, wedging himself against the wall.

“Come on, soldier,” he grunted. “It’ll only be a few hours.” He tried not to think about the sudden urge to turn around and wrap his arms around Cas.

Castiel finally gave in, and Dean fell asleep feeling the angel’s back expand against his own with every breath.

Dean awoke with a start. His face was crushed against the wall and something was pressing into his ass. It turned out to be Cas’ knee, because somehow he had managed to turn in the small bed, contentedly snoozing into Dean’s neck.

With a loud grunt and shove of the elbow, Dean managed to wake up the not-so-angelic angel.

“I think we overslept,” he hissed, glancing at the hint of grey dawning outside the window.

“Then we need to act with haste,” Cas muttered sourly, voice heavy and hoarse with sleep. He stumbled out of the bed and fumbled on his boots and coat, with Dean following his lead as soon as he had cracked his back a little.

They packed their few belongings and snuck out of the saloon, fetching their horses and mule before turning their steps towards the church.

They tied the horses lightly to the rack meant for visitors outside the church. Cas gripped the knife stolen from Kubrick tight and Dean brandished both a jagged knife and his old trusty shotgun as they snuck into the church, Dean casting a nervous glance over his shoulder, checking that no one was yet up and able to see them.

“Ghouls like it dry and dark,” Castiel informed him in a hushed tone as they tried the door. Dean nodded, and took a step back to kick down the church door. Whatever lock mechanism keeping the door shut broke, and the door swung open. Dean winced at the noise produced, but allowed Castiel to sneak in on light feet.

Dean followed, shotgun on the ready, and hid behind the same pillar he’d stood behind eavesdropping on Cas and the ghoul priest. He surveyed the dark and empty church, noting Cas walking silently by the far wall, and then disappearing through the door behind the pulpit.

Dean swore under his breath. Team work was apparently not in the angel’s repertoire, he thought bitterly and rushed after him as quietly as he could.

“Dean,” Castiel said warningly as he barged in after him – the priest was standing in the corner of the back room and as he caught sight of them he bared a set of thin, sharp teeth.

“I knew something smelled off about you,” the monster spat and Castiel started to circle closer to it with the knife at the ready, expertly held. Dean lifted the shotgun to cover him, but the ghoul moved inhumanly fast, whirling past Cas and clawing at Dean as it passed him, tearing up his shoulder and shoving him into the wall.

Castiel was immediately by his side, but Dean waved him away, stars clouding his vision.

“I’m fine, go after him!”

For once, Castiel didn’t argue, and disappeared after the ghoul, while Dean was left to scramble after his shotgun and clear his head.

It only took him a moment, but when Dean made it out of the room he could hear screaming and shouting from the street. He rushed out of the church, standing on the church steps just in time to see Castiel attack the ghoul, which had grabbed a spade from the graveyard and used it to fight him off.

Castiel was moving with unearthly grace, avoiding the clumsy thrusts of the spade and the bared teeth of the monster. He moved back and twirled the knife in his hand and made a feint, which the ghoul only just avoided. Dean was looking for an opening to join the fight when he noticed that some townspeople were looking out their windows and doors, some in night dresses and some fully dressed already, lured out by the ghoul’s screeching and the clanging of weapons.

Castiel parried an attack expertly, but then suddenly fell back. Dean saw him hunch his shoulders in a painful cough. He started to run towards them, but before he reached them and before the ghoul could take advantage of Cas’ weakness, someone shouted,

“Help! Demon!” Both Cas and the ghoul’s head snapped up at this.

Dean stopped and swore loudly. He backed up carefully towards Impala, Cas’ horse and the mule – he had the vague notion of getting himself and Cas out of there after they finished off the ghoul. He loosened Impala’s ties and swung up the saddle. Nobody saw him, as everyone was looking at Castiel and the ghoul in the middle of the street.

Dean saw the ghoul making a dash for someone standing just outside their door and grabbed him harshly, probably intending to use the man as a human shield. Castiel moved swiftly, kicking the monster’s knee, sending it sprawling, tearing a long wound along the man’s chest.

With just one careful swing, Castiel separated its head from its body – but the force of the move stuck the blade deep into the bloody earth, and Dean saw Cas move back, as if in a haze.

He crouched by the wounded man and touched two fingers to his forehead. There was a flash of light, and Dean knew the man was healed. Judging from the way Cas’ shoulders slumped, the act really took it out of him.

Before he could urge Impala on, to go get Cas, there was another shout of “Demon! He killed our priest!” Dean vaguely recognized the voice from earlier – it was the girl from the brothel that had shouted at Cas for telling her about her father.

“Dean.” Dean could hear Castiel say his name, but he was neither shouting nor turned towards him. “Leave.”

And without thinking twice, Dean obeyed and turned the Impala around to gallop out of the town just as the first sliver of sun leaked out over the horizon.

Dean was cursing continuously under his breath where he was lying at the crown of a sandy hill just outside the godforsaken town whose people had arrested Castiel. Dean had snooped around the entire day, trying to save him, but not even managing to catch a glimpse of him locked up in the sheriff’s jail.

Nighttime had proved no more fruitful either – except he managed to eavesdrop on the two men posted as guards outside the sheriff’s office. Apparently everyone was convinced _Cas_ was the monster, a demon sent to slay their servant of God. But slaying the priest had sapped him of his satanic powers, and he had been meek as a lamb, almost ready to faint, when the sheriff had arrested him for murder. He was to be hanged first thing in the morning.

Dean had let out yet another curse as he had backed away. This was just like that time in Pennsylvania, he thought bitterly, except the rescue he was about to mount would go so much smoother if Cas knew he was mounting it.

As things were, he was now perched on a sandy hill with a great view over the gallows that had been erected in Cas’ honor, his shotgun ready and hat pulled over his brow. His shoulder wound was superficial; he’d disinfected it with alcohol and bound it in rags, and it was hardly bothering him anymore.

He was silently thanking the fact that the sun was in his back (making it possible for him to hide in such a high place and easily picking out his target) when the people started gathering for the show.

Castiel was led under the gallows on his own horse, bereft of all belongings except pants and shirt and shoes. His hands were bound to the saddle knob, and Dean thanked his lucky stars for that fact. He looked terrible, as far Dean could tell from the distance, black hair mussed up and stuck to his sweaty forehead in matted locks. The dark circles under his eyes only served to enhance the hollowness of his face.

Something dangerously close to protectiveness made Dean’s gut clench as his grip on the gun tightened and he took aim.

As the judge read the charges and the hangman made to put the noose around Cas’ neck, Dean decided to make his move. He fired one shot into the ground just in front of Castiel’s horse. The crowd erupted into panic and the horse reared, giving a whinnying shriek. The other bullet hit the gallows pole, sending the panicked horse into a startled gallop. Dean quickly slid down the hill and jumped onto Impala. He urged her around the hill, gun held high, to intercept Cas.

Dean grabbed the reins of the grey mare, and turned the horses around, using his legs to guide Impala. He twisted in the saddle and fired a shot above the crowd, to discourage followers. He then quickly tied the reins to his saddle knob to get one hand free and they set off at breakneck speed for the Nebraska grasslands.

“What the hell, man!” Dean shouted after the adrenaline shock had worn off. There was no-one in pursuit and he could ease the horses down into a trot.

“You almost got hanged!” Dean continued as Castiel didn’t seem inclined to answer him.

“I am aware.”

Dean had moved to untie Cas’ horse from Impala’s saddle, but he stopped and turned to him.

“You’re _aware_ ,” he said incredulously. “Cas, you almost _fucking died._ Which means _I would have died_. All to save some little shit town in the middle of nowhere!”

Castiel squinted at Dean with his icy, sky blue eyes.

“We were on a mission, Dean. That man would have died and many more besides if  I hadn’t taken out that monster.”

“Mission my ass!” Dean threw out his arms violently, making Impala nervous. She neighed and her trot fell out of rhythm, jolting Dean a little.

He regained his balance just in time for Castiel to come up by his side.

“A mission is always carried out to the end, Dean,” he repeated stonily with a cough and moved his gaze to the horizon. The grass was reaching up to their knees now, and the horses slowed down on their own accord.

“Yeah, well maybe when Heaven is giving the orders, but one of the perks of free will is that you get to choose when, where and how the mission is carried out!”

Dean tried to meet Cas’ eyes, but gave up and clenched his legs to signal to Impala to speed up a little. The horse danced forward obligingly, but then Castiel reached out and clasped Dean’s shoulder.

He looked back to meet Castiel’s eyes, and there was a look of regret on his face as he said,

“Thank you for saving me, Dean.”

Dean huffed, and tried to shrug off the sincerity.

“I guess we’re even, then,” he muttered and tried to make Impala go faster in the high grass. He didn’t see the look of hurt on Cas’ face. Another cough wracked his already shivering body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "prairie flower" - again, slang for prostitute


	8. Go West, Young Man

 

* * *

It had been raining for three days straight. They had thankfully managed to cross the South Platte River without a ferry since the spring and summer had been exceptionally dry. Dean had just managed to thank his luck when the first droplets had hit his nose.

Where the grass wasn’t up to their waists, the rain had turned the ground into mud, which had caked the bellies of their horses and their legs, with splatters all the way up to their shoulders. Cas cough had turned persistent, and Dean could only offer him whiskey as a remedy.

At night they had curled up under their tent, which thankfully had been packed on Impala, shuddering and trying to leech off of the other’s body warmth. Dean had given Castiel his coat, as he had nothing but his shirt left. Dean tried to convince him his leather vest was enough, but that was a lie.

On the third night, Cas could not stop shivering. Dean had to throw off his blanket and turn around, because the shivering was so violent he couldn’t sleep.

“Cas,” he said hoarsely. “Hey Cas, what’s the matter?”

“Cold,” was the mumbled answer, and Dean sighed.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this,” he muttered, and lay down so that he was pressed along Cas’ backside and threw his arm around him after pulling his blanket over the both of them.

He’d only just come to rest again when he jolted and sat up.

“Jesus fuck, Cas, you’re burning up! You have a fever!”

“Don't you realize that I could ask my Father for thousands of angels?” Cas muttered and twitched violently. “To protect us, and he would send them instantly?”

With a sickening feeling growing in his gut, Dean realized Cas was delirious.

He instantly took off his own shirt and pants and in only his undergarments he crawled under Cas’ blanket and pulled his own over them both. As awkward as it might be, this was the best way to share body heat, Dean knew.

He wrapped his arms around Castiel under his shirt as best he could, his back uncomfortably hot and damp.

“Warm, it’s warm,” Cas said and Dean’s hand came to rest just under his chin. He could feel his elevated heartbeat against his arm.

 “That’s right,” he mumbled soothingly. “We’ll get you warm. Just sweat it out, Cas.”

“Cas,” repeated the angel quietly. “ _Cad. Cas. Cid._ Latin, to fall.”

“Shhh,” Dean murmured, the heavy weight of anxiety settled in his chest.

“ – iel, that means ‘from God’. You took God from my name and what’s left?” Cas kept muttering and Dean started to stroke his black, sweat-soaked hair with his other hand in an attempt to calm him down.

“Cas, it’s okay. Just try to sleep.”

“I feel like I’m falling,” Cas whispered, and Dean didn’t know what to say. But then Cas, too, fell silent, and they slept fitfully for the rest of the night.

In the morning, Dean packed all their belongings on the grey horse and tied her reins to the saddle of Impala. After forcing the still-delirious angel to drink some water, he basically had to lift him into Impala’s saddle before heaving himself up behind.

He put his arms around Cas to grab the reins and keep him steady, and so they set off in the still-pouring rain. Cas’ head rested heavily on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean didn’t usually thank God or the Heavens if something lucky came his way, but when they stumbled across a wagon train camp with at least ten pitched wagon tents, somewhere around midday, he was just about ready to fall on his knees and shout hallelujah. Instead he called out,

“Hello? We’re travelers and we need help!”

Dean couldn’t say he was surprised when the barrel of a gun was the first thing that stuck out of the wagon tent closest to them.

“Hands in the air, mister!”

“I’d love to, sir, but my friend is delirious with fever and he might fall off the horse if I let go of him!”

Cas was now mumbling in a language unknown to Dean, and it scared him.

A black-skinned man in his middle age peeked out. A woman with a bony face and black hair in a bun pushed past him.

“That man is obviously hurting, Isaac,” she called and pulled her shawl up over her head to protect her from the rain. “Come help me.”

The man called Isaac grumbled and stepped out, too, gun still in hand. Dean tried to get off Impala without dumping Cas to the ground, and somehow, with the woman’s help, they managed to get him down and supported him between them.

“We just heard there were bandits hereabouts,” Isaac said after dumping the gun and helping what Dean presumed was his wife. “Can’t blame us for being careful.”

“I certainly can’t,” Dean agreed. “Thank you for helping, I don’t know how much longer my friend would’ve lasted-“

Dean found his voice breaking and went quiet as they all crept inside the wagon tent and laid Castiel down.

“You are both soaking,” the woman muttered. “We need to get these clothes off of you right now. I’ll go ask the others if they have blankets to spare.”

“Yes, Tamara,” her husband said. “Well, you heard her. Strip down.”

Dean was too happy to be rid of his soaked clothes to be the least bit self-conscious. Isaac gave him a rough blanket to dry himself off with and started to rid Castiel of his clothing, too.

“I’ll see if I have some whiskey to warm you up,” Isaac muttered after wrapping up a naked Cas in a bundle of blankets.

“God bless you,” Dean said with a heartfelt tone and chattering teeth.

A while later, Tamara returned with three blankets, put one on Castiel and handed the two others to Dean and helped him wrap himself up without letting go of his glass of whiskey.

“Winchester is the name,” Dean remembered to say after a while. “Dean Winchester. This is Cas.” He sat beside his friend, checking his temperature every now and then with the back of his hand. The delirious muttering had ceased, but he was still hot and shivering.

“You brothers or something?” Isaac asked, and lit his pipe. Tamara fussed about, muttering about tea.

“Something like that,” Dean admitted. “We’ve been traveling together for a while.”

It wasn’t much more than two months, Dean realized as he said it. It felt much, much longer, like he’d known Cas all his life. And for the first time he wondered, _if Cas dies of fever, will I die, too_?

“So where are y’all coming from?” Dean asked, trying to get away from the uncomfortable topic of _them_.

“Kansas,” Isaac said around the pipe.

“No way, I was born in those parts!” Dean exclaimed and took a sip of whiskey.

“We lost our son in the war,” Tamara said, matter-of-factly. “We didn’t want to stay there anymore, and as soon as we could scrape together the money, we left.”

“Oh,” said Dean, taken aback. But he cupped his mug of whiskey in his hands and continued, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. I lost my mother because of the war, too.”

Because demons wanted to start the war, he didn’t say. Cas had to make it; how else were they supposed to stop all the demons from getting loose and finish what they started in ’54? He put a hand on Castiel’s where it stuck out from beneath the blankets, slightly curled and damp.

“Let’s hope the rain lets up until tomorrow,” Isaac said and his wife gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Dean lay down and huddled closer to Cas and tried to go to sleep.

“Hey Cas,” he whispered when he thought Isaac and Tamara were already asleep. “Please be okay.”       

It was almost as if someone had heard Dean’s prayers. When morning broke, the rain had turned into a drizzle that abated early afternoon and Cas’ eyes blinked open, bleary but not fever-glazed.

“Cas!” Dean had been peering out of the wagon tent, watching the people of the camp make up a fire in the middle of it to cook while some took the animals out for grazing, when he heard the rustling of the angel sitting up.

“Dean,” Cas replied and rubbed his eyes. His black hair stuck up in all directions and Dean almost chuckled at the sight, he was so relieved.

“Hey man,” he said and went over to him to give him a hand. “You were in pretty bad shape there for a while. How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” was the gravelly, dry reply and Dean fumbled after the water flask that Tamara had left them during the night and gave it to Cas. He drank greedily and some of it trickled down his chin.

Dean smiled as he looked at him. He was still naked and only wrapped in blankets; Dean was wearing some of Isaac’s old clothes while his own were set out to dry.

“I’ll go find some dry clothes for you,” he said finally, as Cas put away the flask. “Then you can come out for breakfast, if you feel strong enough.”

And sure enough; clad in borrowed pants and shirt and a fair coat two sizes too big for him, Cas stumbled out of the wagon, clasping Dean’s arm for support.

“It’s like my body is made of soaked grains,” Cas said bitterly and let go of Dean, but swaying ever so slightly without the support.

“Having fever will make you weak as a kitten,” Dean agreed. “Just take it easy for a while and we can be on our way again.”

After a healthy breakfast of bacon, bread and coffee, Cas had regained a little color on his cheeks. Dean dumped the Bible Bobby had given them in his lap and said,

“You do some light reading and don’t strain yourself. I’ll go see if I can help these people with something.”

Dean helped with various chores during the course of the day, watering the animals including his own, carrying up buckets of water from the Platte River to let the silt settle so it could be drunk and gathering buffalo chips for fuel. He got to know several of the emigrants in the wagon train, and none of them asked too many invasive questions.

Somewhere around midday, there was a noise like thunder and as Dean looked around, there seemed to be a massive dust cloud to the south.

“Buffalo!” someone called, and the men of the camp agreed that they would all try to fell a bison to fill out their food stores. There was a great buzz of excitement – there hadn’t been a bison herd around for months, some of them were saying.

“Do you know something about hunting, son?” Isaac asked and grabbed his shotgun. Dean grinned widely and went over to Impala to grab his own.

“I just might know something about it.”

The hunting itself was not difficult – they managed to separate one bison from the herd and afterwards, Dean couldn’t actually remember who it was who fired the shot that killed it – it went through the beast’s lungs, it crashed into the ground and the hunt was over in a quick rush of  adrenaline.

The trick was getting the beast back to camp – after separating the head they could hitch the body to two horses and drag it back.

“Hey Cas!” Dean called as they were got back to the camp. He was folding dry clothes together with Tamara and three other women, engaging in what seemed to be small talk.

“Hi, Dean,” he replied. “The hunt was successful, I gather.”

“Let’s have a feast tonight!” one of Dean’s co-hunters exclaimed and one of the women in Cas’ company filled in,

“With dancing!”

This was met with a chorus of cheers and agreements, and Dean was smiling as he found himself in the midst of the preparations for celebration.

Somewhere in between changing into his old clothes and hacking up the meat into manageable chunks, Cas came up to him and gave the Bible back to him.

“It didn’t really contain any answers for me,” Cas said and tucked it into the inner pocket of Dean’s vest. “Maybe you will get something out of it instead.”

“I doubt it,” Dean laughed, but let the Bible be anyway. He squeezed Cas shoulder with a hand before going off to help with the grilling of the meat over the campfire.

It was probably the best meal of Dean’s life. There was whiskey to go round, and there were various toasts to to the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, Washington and the state of Nebraska – so it wasn’t long before they were all a bit tipsy. Then someone broke out a fiddle and there were shouts of dancing.

There were a few more men than women, especially since Dean and Cas had joined them. This meant that a couple of men had to tie bandanas on their arms and be lady partners – Dean had come across this custom a couple of times, but he had never participated before.  


“I ain’t much good at dancing,” Dean tried, but Cas smiled at him and threw him a scarf.

“Don’t worry,” he said and held out his right hand. “I’ll lead.”

Cas put his left hand on Dean’s waist but he didn’t turn out to be that good at dancing either. They stumbled more than once – Cas looked so awkward that Dean just had to laugh. He grabbed his waist suddenly and twirled them around so that Cas’ coat flew out behind him.

“Hey!” Cas protested and Dean just chuckled and put one hand back up on Cas’ shoulder and the other into his hand.

The jaunty tune the fiddler had been playing changed into something slower, but still happy. Dean didn’t recognize it, but he saw Tamara put her head on Isaac’s shoulder a bit away and close her eyes.

He looked at Cas, who looked back with his strangely clear, blue eyes. His expression was serious all of a sudden, and Dean suddenly felt out of breath. Cas’ eyes wandered downward and Dean swallowed. The alcohol was buzzing in his head and he shifted his hand a little closer to Cas’ throat. Cas blinked slowly, black eyelashes fluttering.

Castiel’s grip on Dean’s waist tightened as they almost stumbled again, and Dean looked down to make sure he didn’t step on Cas’ toes. When he looked up again to apologize, he brought their faces so close to each other he could feel Cas’ breath on his lips.

Dean was sure it was the whiskey, but it took him a moment to lean back and say,

“Sorry.”

Cas laced their fingers together and squeezed.

“It’s okay,” Castiel reassured, and somehow Dean didn’t think he was talking about the stumbling.

The following morning, Dean woke up with a groan. He and Cas were sleeping in Isaac and Tamara’s wagon again, and something heavy was placed on Dean’s legs. He blinked sand from his eyes and realized the weight on his legs were _Castiel’s_ legs, which were sprawled all over his.

“Cas,” he grunted and shoved him in the side. “Wake up, buddy. We need to go.”

There was an unintelligible, disgruntled murmur as a reply and Cas pulled the blanket he was wrapped in over his head. Dean sighed, got up and tried to find his boots.

He got out of the wagon to find various people sprawled out and asleep outside the ring of wagons, by the glowing embers of yesterday’s campfire. Some of them were already up, cooking bacon and coffee over the hot coal.

“Morning,” Dean mumbled to Tamara, who happened to be taking a pot of coffee of the stones.

“Morning, sunshine,” she smiled and offered him a cup of black gruel. He gratefully accepted it.

“You sleep well?”

“Yeah. Cas still is.”

“So we decided to stay here another day. What about you?”

“We need to be going,” Dean said with a lopsided smile. “But thank you so much for all you’ve done.”

He turned to go get Cas, when he paused and turned back.

“If you ever need our help, there’s a place up in Wyoming called the Roadhouse.”

He winked. “You can always leave a message there for me.”

They said good-bye just half an hour later. Tamara convinced them to keep Isaac’s coat that Cas was wearing.

“He has another. Don’t you worry none boys, and God be with you.”

They traveled in silence for the most part of the day. The sky was overcast, but rays of sunshine managed to break through the clouds occasionally. The head-high grass was giving way to steeper ground and Dean started wondering if they weren’t closing in on Wyoming territory already.

He was just about to suggest a break for the horses when there was a noise from an assembly of rocks just ahead, by the river. Dean pulled Impala to a stop, and she turned a little sideways, rump towards the river.

“What is it?” Cas asked and stopped too, looking searchingly at Dean, who scouted ahead with eyebrows drawn together.

He opened his mouth to reply when he saw someone’s hat stick up from behind the stones – a hat and the barrel of a gun. A gun aimed at Castiel.

“Bandits!” Dean shouted and kicked his heels into Impala and she reared forward, forcing Castiel’s horse back.

There was a gunshot. Something hit Dean in his chest. As he fell off his horse, he thought, “Not again,” and lost consciousness.

It felt like it was only a moment later he sat up and coughed violently. There was a smarting spot on his chest and he knew it was going to bruise. He looked up, eyes winded, and saw Castiel come towards him, hands bloody and coat spattered with red.

“Dean!” he called.

“What happened to the bandits?” Dean asked and carefully tried to press on the hurting spot, to assess the damage. He was afraid that his hand would come away as bloody as Cas’.

“I killed three of them and I think the fourth fled into the river,” Cas replied shortly, before kneeling beside Dean, touching his hand. “You were shot?”

“Yeah,” said Dean and pulled out the small, black bible that Castiel had put in his vest pocket. A small lead bullet had pierced it, and lay embedded in the back cover.

They both stared at it for a moment. Then they stared at each other. Then Dean started to laugh hysterically, falling back and letting the bible fall from his hand.

“God works,” he gasped in between laughing, “in mysterious ways!”

“This almost makes me believe in luck,” Castiel muttered dumbfounded, prodding at the destroyed book with the toe of his shoe.

“That’s great,” Dean said after his hysterics had died down. “A miracle that makes an unbeliever believe and a servant of God believe in chance.”

“I want to wash off this blood,” Castiel said drily. Dean clumsily got to his feet and noticed he had to have been knocked out for longer than he thought. Dusk was already falling.

“You do that,” Dean agreed. “I’ll cook us some beans in the meantime.”

Dean had just got a small fire started and was about to crack open a can of beans and rice when he realized that Cas had stripped down completely and was wading out into the stream to his knees.

He almost knocked the pan over at the sight of Cas’ lean, pale backside. Dean suddenly felt uncomfortable in his own clothes and tried to look away, but somehow his gaze kept being drawn back. Cas seemed utterly unaware of his own nakedness and washed calmly, scrubbing blood off his coat as well.

Dean gave up with the beans and stalked over to the river. He leaned against a small, gnarly tree that grew on the riverbank, and tried to look over the water instead of at Castiel.

“Careful so you don’t catch a cold,” he said after clearing his throat. “Again.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel said and up from the water, water trickling down his whole body, droplets shimmering in his hair. “It felt really refreshing.”

“I, uh, bet,” Dean said, trying desperately not to look below Cas’ waist. He took off his hat and held it in his hands, just to do something. He swallowed and scratched his neck nervously before he could blurt out,

“I was afraid you’d die with fever.”

Castiel tilted his head a little to the side, looking strangely alien.

“I was afraid you had been shot to death.”

“Obviously I wasn’t,” Dean retorted, trying to handle the extreme proximity of Cas’ naked body with dignity.

“I’m thankful,” Cas said and reached out a hand. Dean recoiled a little, but allowed Cas’ hand to cradle his cheek. Dean’s pulse was a loud whooshing in his ears and he leaned in closer.

“Cas,” he breathed. Castiel looked into his eyes and then looked down at his mouth. Dean knew he was lost then, and he angled his head a little, opening his mouth in an invitation Then they kissed, a soft pressing of lips together.

Dean’s eyes closed on instinct, but he opened them again to find Castiel still looking at him. Dean opened his mouth to say something, which Cas took as an invitation to bite his lower lip. A moan escaped Dean’s mouth, and he grabbed Castiel’s hips to steady himself.

“Can I undress you, Dean?” Cas mumbled into Dean’s mouth, and he thought he might just melt at the knees.

“Yeah, I- uh. Yes,” Dean agreed and even helped Castiel get off his vest and kicked off his boots himself.

“I didn’t – I mean I thought angels didn’t…” Dean stuttered, trying to make sense of Castiel looking so intently at him and opening his shirt button by button.

“I want to touch you,” Castiel admitted and looked down as his hands unbuttoned the last button. Dean felt a surge of heat pooling in his stomach, and he kissed Cas on the neck.

“I want to touch you, too,” Dean mumbled into his ear and he felt the angel shiver under his touch, entirely different from feverish shaking. “Can I – tell me when to stop.”

As Dean started to kiss Cas along his collar bone, he tentatively reached around to clasp his buttocks. Cas only pressed his body closer to Dean’s, so he took it as a sign of encouragement.

Dean’s mouth found Cas’ again, and their kisses became frantic and sloppy, their noses bumping together. Cas fumbled with Dean’s pants, and Dean tried to press all of Cas’ torso against his own and this resulted in them both falling over ungracefully.

“Sorry,” Dean chuckled and let his thumb trail downwards over Cas’ stomach, with his hand pressed over his side. Cas smiled and managed to drag Dean’s pants and drawers down to his knees, and palmed his hardening dick without further ado. Dean hissed in surprise, but Castiel tenderly rubbed along the shaft. The hiss turned into a slow moan as Dean threw his head back.

“You certainly are no stranger to this,” Dean murmured and pulled Castiel on top of himself, the feeling of his cold, damp skin against his own overheated stomach and thighs fantastic.

“Neither are you,” Castiel stated as Dean kissed Cas on his breastbone, dragging his hands along his back.

“There was a boy down in Texas once,” Dean admitted. “Lord knows I was ashamed afterwards, I almost thought to ask forgiveness for my sins.”

“Why?” said Castiel and lifted Dean’s face with his hand, searching his eyes. “To love is not a sin.”

Dean blinked and rubbed his crooked nose against Cas cheek, to avoid his brilliant, painfully sharp eyes.

“I’m glad you see it that way,” he murmured and kissed his jawline, their stubble scraping  against each other. Cas bumped their foreheads together and ground his crotch against Dean’s. Dean moaned and dug his finger into Cas shoulders as Cas whispered breathlessly into his throat,

“I love you, Dean.”

Dean might have screamed obscenities and curses at Cas later on that evening, but it was only after they had lain panting together on the grass-covered river bank, that Dean turned towards him, leaning on his elbow, and said,

“I love you too, you ass.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The frontierspeople were very fond of dancing, and since there often was a shortage of women, the men would don scarves and dance as the lady counterpart. This is one of those times when real fact is better than fiction.


	9. The Devil's Gate

* * *

“That’s it there, right?” Dean asked and pointed at the strange rock formation to the south: A narrow gorge where some of the Sweetwater River trickled over sand. “The Devil’s Gate?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “You humans do have an innate sense for noticing the supernatural without actually recognizing it as such. It’s why this is a landmark to you; yet the trail does not pass through it.”

“I guess,” Dean muttered. Despite the clear blue sky above the rift in the giant rock, he felt a vague sense of dread when looking upon it.

“Right, so is this a cave or what, where’s the actual Gate to Hell gonna be?” he asked and urged Impala to tread down into the shallow stream.

“No, that gorge is the Gate,” Castiel said. “When the ritual is done, the sky will open and demons will flood out of the rift.”

Dean paused, rubbed his eyes and replied,

“Well, fucking fantastic. But at least it seems we’re here before Sam and company.”

“I sense no demon presence, so you’re probably right.”

Dean turned towards him and flashed him a grin. Despite the gravity of the forthcoming situation, he couldn’t help but remember their last fortnight on the Oregon Trail, much of which had been spent casting furtive glances and nudging their horses close enough for them to touch.

When night fell they had curled up next to each other and explored each other’s bodies with hands and mouths and while none of these times had the same fervor  and sense of discovery as the first time, they were still part of a greater journey – one that Dean had longed to undertake for longer than he cared to admit.

 Now that they were finally traversing it together – the angel and he – Dean allowed himself to feel happy, because God knew how long that journey would last.

“Yeah, well, I guess we just have to find a nice hiding place and wait for an opportunity to crash the party,” he said and laughed at the confused look on Cas’ face.

“I wasn’t aware of any festivities,” he commented, but Dean was pretty sure he was teasing.

He leaned over the space between both of their horses, and planted a kiss on the corner of Castiel’s lips. Just because he could. Castiel said nothing, but he looked down on his hands and smiled.

They ended up camping on the far side of the gorge, quite a bit up the hill from the stream, hidden from plain view by shrubbery and trees. The horses were de-saddled and loosely tied to a pair of trees a bit lower down – they would have to bring them grass to eat, or take them on walks every now and then if they had to stay long.

A few days passed while they prepared for the arrival of Ruby and Sam, making up strategies and plans, scoping out their surroundings. They carved in the devil’s trap sigil into every one of Dean’s bullets – he would have to shoot her with one of them to trap the demon inside the body and she would be helpless. They didn’t dare count on Cas’ angelic power, not since the fever had drained him so.

They needed the demon alive and trapped, to question her about the scope of this apocalypse, if there were any other demons ready to take her place if she died. Dean also practiced the exorcism chant, but the Latin never seemed to stick. Cas repeated it for him several times, always patient, but Dean’s tongue stumbled over the words. Finally he ripped out the page spelling the incantation from his father’s journal, stuffed it in his pocket to have close at hand.

The spent some nights palming each other fully clothed, or reaching into pants to reach climax – other nights they only kissed, maybe tracing ribs or spines under shirts – Castiel was fond of kissing an indiscernible pattern among Dean’s freckles, from his nose to his shoulders.

Dean spent the days checking his weapons and taking care of the horses, while Cas told him stories from ancient Sumeria and Mesopotamia, when many angels had walked the earth in vessels, not just silently watching over it, and interfering in the affairs of humans.

Sometimes Dean was overwhelmed with the fact that Cas was an _angel_ , but he felt like a man under his touch – warm, soft and firm, and the sound he made when Dean swallowed down his come was entirely human. It was only sometimes, when Castiel looked at the horizon for hours, that Dean thought he looked untouchable.

Idleness didn’t suit Dean. He even started to read the book on angel lore Bobby had given them one day when there were no chores left. One passage made him look up, and call to Castiel.

“Hey Cas. This here says no angel has walked the Earth in two thousand years, but Pamela – the psychic I told you about – said that you were walking the Earth before Sam and Ruby summoned you.”

Cas was scratching his grey mare behind her ears; she was comfortably lying on her side with her big eyes closed, and Castiel was leaning on her warm back.

“No angel has walked the Earth _in a vessel_ in two thousand years,” he clarified. “I was stationed at Earth when I was summoned – it could have been any of my garrison, but it happened to be me.”

Dean closed the book and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“I’m kinda glad it was you, Cas,” he said. “No offense, but from what you’ve told me your brothers kind of sound like dicks, the lot of them.”

Cas threw him an annoyed glare, but Dean knew him enough to see the hint of a smirk.

“What if we missed them,” he said the next morning. “I mean, we had some detours and they – they had a three days head start. The demons could be loose already.”

“No,” replied Castiel. He was drinking their last cup of coffee. “I may not possess my full angelic powers, but I’d know if demons had passed through here.”

“Do you miss it?” Dean asked and sat down beside him. “Being an angel?”

“I still am,” Castiel said, somewhat prickly. But he sighed and continued,

“I miss my brothers and sisters, and yet… I feel something is wrong in Heaven. I feel that if I were to return now, they wouldn’t let me leave again.”

Dean put his arm around Cas, and nuzzled his neck softly. Cas leaned into his touch, and for the first time Dean realized that eventually he would lose Castiel, too. He sighed deeply, but didn’t let go.

Suddenly, Cas restlessly got to his feet. Dean turned his body towards him, reaching out a hand.

“Cas, what is it?” Castiel sighed, and crouched down beside Dean.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Dean,” he said, and Dean felt a cold hand clench his stomach.

Castiel looked up at the sky.

“I think the Host of Heaven might be aiding the demon to start the apocalypse.”

Dean grasped his arm, forcing Cas to look down at him.

“The angels want an apocalypse? Why?”

“I told you that God has left. For a long time we have been without purpose.” Cas met Dean’s searching gaze, and there was something sorrowful and impossibly old in his eyes.

“The apocalypse would bring us purpose. I have felt the stirrings in Heaven, but I am cut off now and I don’t know… I believe angels have spoken to the Men of Letters, leading your brother to be the sacrificial sheep.”

Dean let go of his arm, and rubbed his forehead.

“Shit. Cas, what do we do?”

Castiel put a hand to Dean’s cheek, and gently pushed his chin up so that their eyes met again.

“We stick to the plan,” he told him assuredly, “we wait for your brother and the demon, we trap the demon and question her and then we kill her with the Colt.”

Dean swallowed and nodded. His lips found Cas’, and they kissed for a long time, pulling at each other’s hair and clothes, pushing their bodies together in a frenzied attempt to reassure the other that things were going to be okay.

 

It was a clear night and neither of them had gotten a wink of sleep. They were sitting huddled together (not for warmth, the summer had reached them in Wyoming, too) and Dean had lit a cigarette.

He wasn’t a big smoker, really, but he found a pack in one of his saddle bags. He needed something to calm his nerves, and the whiskey was long gone. The only flasks left were those of holy water. He watched the sprinkles of stars on the night sky and tried not to chew on the tobacco.

Dean disdainfully let out a puff of smoke through his nose and leaned on Castiel, who was deeply immersed in John’s journal yet again.

“Hey man,” he said and glanced at Cas’ scrunched-up face. “Do you need one of them reading glasses or what?”

Cas threw him a glare before suddenly straightening up.

“They’re coming,” he warned, and Dean swallowed a mouthful of smoke before putting the cigarette out, crushing it into the ground with his heel.

Almost without any noise, Dean grabbed both his revolver and shotgun, strapping the latter onto his back and put his hat on out of habit. Castiel gripped Dean’s two largest knives, and with only one look at each other, they parted to take their positions.

Dean slid down the hillside, silently cursing the rubble that tumbled down with him. Castiel, however, moved both more swiftly and silently to the other side of the gorge, not even making a splash as he crossed the stream.

Dean placed himself beside a tree, trusting the darkness to hide him, though the next-to-full moon was illuminating the landscape in an eerie blue-white glow.

Dean inhaled and cocked the revolver just as he saw two riders approaching. Seeing the unmistakable silhouette of his tall brother in his ten-gallon hat made Dean stop breathing for a moment, something sour climbing up his throat.

Beside Sam, there was none other than Ruby, the demon that had killed Dean. The unbidden memory of her knife sliding in between his ribs made him shudder, but he clenched his teeth and did not move. He was to wait for Cas’ signal.

The two approaching riders stopped their horses in the middle of the gorge, leaning towards each other to talk. Dean could hear the murmur of speech, but it was impossible to discern words. He strained his eyes and tried to catch sight of the vessel-to-be, but there seemed to be no additional person.

Dean’s brow wrinkled in confusion, and thumbed the handle of his revolver, but not yet placing his index finger on the trigger. He cast a look over at Castiel, perched just out of Sam and Ruby’s sight, with his gaze firmly fixed on them.

Dean saw Sam getting down from his horse, and splashed over to Cas’ side of the gorge and started painting something on the hillside. At the same time, Ruby opened a pouch in her saddle bag and started pouring something into the stream. Dean was beginning to feel really nervous, because he recognized no ritual from what they were doing.

He shifted his feet, just a tiny fraction, but the movement sent a rattle of stones down into the stream. The demon’s head immediately snapped up. She made a violent gesture with her hand and Dean felt himself being yanked down by some invisible force.

He crashed into the stream face-first and felt his revolver being knocked out of his hand. He swore and tried to fumble after it, but to no avail. The same invisible force pulled him upright, and suddenly the demon was having him in a chokehold, one hand a vice around his throat and the other holding a knife at his gut.

“Dean Winchester,” Ruby hissed as he looked into her coal-black eyes. “How nice of you to show up.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Dean choked out, but he was interrupted by Sam, who was striding towards them with his arms open.

“Dean! You- You’re alive! How-“

“Quiet, Sam,” Ruby commanded, stretching out the hand holding the knife. Sam went crashing down into the stream as well. Dean tried desperately to claw his way free from Ruby’s grip.

“You lying bitch,” he growled. “If you touch Sammy I’ll –“

Ruby sneered at him, but there was no real joy behind it.

“We all have our parts to play,” she hissed and threw Dean against the side of the gorge. He was uncomfortably pressed against cold, uneven rock by demonic powers and Dean was starting to get really tired of this. He couldn’t even reach his shotgun strapped to his back, instead it just pressed painfully into his spine and right shoulder blade.

Ruby stalked closer, and, to Dean’s surprise, she ripped open his shirt and vest.

“I wish I could say I was flattered, but…” he began drily, but was cut off by a vicious back-handed slap. Ruby swiftly cut a thin line across his arm, just above the elbow and, ignoring Dean’s grunt of pain, she started to draw a sigil with his own blood on his chest just below the collarbones.

“Ruby!” came the strained voice of Sam from behind her. “What- what are you doing? You told me we could save Dean by summoning the angel.”

“Yeah, well, turns out Dean’s fine after all,” Ruby called back. “The angel was summoned thanks to Dean’s blood sacrifice, and a bond was created between them.”

“ _What_?”

“It was supposed to be you, Sam. The Men of Letters sent you my way, because they wanted an angel summoned,” Ruby explained and backed away – Dean was still stuck to the gorge side. He felt as if the blood sigil on his chest was eating its way through his skin.

Ruby knelt by Sam, who was pinned to the ground, barely managing to lift his head.

She stroked his hair with something close to affection.

“Sam, oh Sam,” she said longingly. “Don’t you see? This is perfect. I don’t have to sacrifice you at all – we can be together, I can make you Prince of Hell and we can lead the Apocalypse together. It was such a stroke of luck that your brother came into the picture as he did, binding the angel to him instead of you. The Men of Letters thought they were doing the right thing by sending you to me, but the right thing is actually your brother.”

“What are you doing?” Dean demanded to know, fruitlessly struggling against the supernatural grip holding him in place. She rose and snapped her head Dean’s way.

“Summoning an angel with a blood sacrifice means the human will be resurrected and thus bound to the angel saving him. Sacrificing a human once already sacrificed and bound to an angel, will set the demons of hell free.

“No,” Sam spat, tendons in his neck bulging as he fought to get up. “You are not killing my brother – and I will not be Prince of Hell. I can’t believe you – all the things you said about remembering what it was like to be human-“

“All true!” the demon interrupted with a cry. “I swear Sam, I love you, I really do. Think of the things we can do together, you and I!”

She turned to Dean, and all he could do was bare his teeth.

“He’ll come around,” she told him confidently. “And, well. Nice knowing you, Dean. It’s really too bad, I don’t particularly want to kill you, but…”

She threw a look over her shoulder at Sam before she leaned in close to Dean, carelessly letting the point of her knife rest at the dip of his throat.

“So where did you dump that angel of yours? I followed the hexbag I planted on your horse but I tried several angel discovering rituals without finding him. Did you leave him in Kansas in that barn, or what?”

Dean swallowed and felt the metal scrape over his skin and not for the first time he wondered what the hell Cas was waiting for. The demon stank of rotten eggs, and he wrinkled his nose at her.

Ruby stared into his eyes for a moment, but since no answer seemed to be forthcoming, she shrugged.

“Oh, well,” she said and lifted the knife. Dean’s whole body recoiled, and he could already feel the metal between his ribs and the cold breath of Death on his neck. His entire brain went blank and one word escaped his lips.

“Cas,” he whispered, and it seemed the angel heard his prayer.

There was a voice like thunder and hail, like the frost on late autumn mornings. It was a breath of fresh air in Dean’s sulphur-filled lungs and it filled him with dread. It spoke in a language Dean didn’t understand, ancient and mighty.

Ruby hissed and let go of Dean like he had become glowing hot. He fell down in a heap as the force holding him pressed against the cliff wall disappeared.

He tried to scramble upright while reaching for his gun when he caught sight of Castiel.

The angel was standing in the middle of the gorge. He held a bloody knife in his right hand; his shirt was torn open and a bloody sigil was carved into his chest – Dean thought he recognized it as an angel banishing signal from the book on angel lore, and his thoughts crossed. Castiel’s eyes were glowing white and the water under him shimmered.

“You will not kill Dean,” he said, and Ruby made a lunge after the hunter, as to prove him wrong. But Dean gripped his shotgun and managed to roll around and deliver a heavy blow to Ruby’s head with the barrel, pushing her to the side.

He turned his mud-streaked face toward the angel and shouted,

“What the fuck are you doing Cas?”

“Keeping you safe, Dean!” answered Castiel and pressed his left palm to his bloody chest.

He erupted in brilliant light, the beams seeping through every seam in his body. Dean had to shield his eyes and when he managed to look back it was just in time to see Cas crumble and fall down into the shallow, muddy water.

“Cas!” Dean bellowed while Ruby gave a scream of rage. They both tried to rush for Cas, and Dean felt his heart in his throat.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_.”

Ruby halted as if someone had yanked at her. Dean looked back. Sam had pushed himself upright, and had a look of stony determination on his face. He inhaled and continued,

“ _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”_

“No!” roared Ruby. “Sam, don’t!”

“ _Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te_ ,” Sam growled mercilessly.

Ruby threw her head back and her body started to spasm while Sam kept reciting Latin. Dean ignored her and leaped to Castiel’s side, kneeling by his body.

Black smoke started pouring out of Ruby’s mouth and Dean fumbled for Castiel’s throat, trying desperately to detect a pulse.

“… _humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos!_ ” Sam shouted and Ruby’s empty body slumped down. Dean placed two shaking fingers just beneath Cas’ jaw bone, and he felt like weeping when he felt the soft pulsing of blood.

“Cas, you dumb son of a bitch,” he whispered. “What did you do?”

To his immense relief, Castiel opened his eyes.

“I fell,” he said, and Dean blinked. He put his hand on Cas’ and twined their fingers together.

“What do you mean?” Dean said hoarsely, and Castiel sighed.

“It was the only way… If I hadn’t ripped out my grace, then Ruby would have killed you and opened the Devil’s Gate.”

“Couldn’t you just have, I don’t know, killed her or something?” Dean said, sounding angry to mask his voice breaking. He could hear Sam get up and stalk over to Ruby’s body, but he didn’t look away from Cas.

The angel – the fallen angel smiled and shook his head minutely.

“They would have sent another,” he mumbled. “It’s- it’s not only the demons that want the Apocalypse, Dean. Heaven wants it, too. I only realized it too late. I’m sure of it now. I’m sorry.”

Dean frowned and lifted his other hand to Cas’ cheek, cradling it. “You mean they sent you to be sacrificed with me?”

“I wouldn’t have died, but you would have. This was the only way to save you, Dean.”

“But- they’ll try again, won’t they? With someone else”

Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes, a look of wonder in them. The stars glimmered in his irises and he had never looked more human. Dean felt himself choke up at the sight of his mouth forming the words,

“But we’ll be here to stop them, won’t we?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispered and lifted Castiel into a hug, burying his face into his neck. “We’ll be here.”


	10. Epilogue

“The Men of Letters obey the Host of Heaven, and they sent Sam in Ruby’s way to be sacrificed so that the Apocalypse would start. Ruby probably had no idea of Heaven’s plans, she was only a pawn as well.”

Castiel looked a little sheepish telling them all this in the comfort of the Roadhouse. They were all three sitting by a round table, exhausted after the trip from the Devil’s Gate. They were the only ones boarding up there, as it was the middle of summer and prime hunting time.

Dean clasped Sam’s shoulder and clicked his tongue.

“Told you they were bad news, Sammy. You never should have left us.”

“Dean,” Sam said, and there was a weariness around his eyes that Dean had never seen before. “The Men of Letters are well-meaning. If there’s corruption in their midst, I need to root it out.”

“Yeah, I bet that’ll be fun,” Dean said sarcastically. “’Hey guys, remember me who you sent to die? I’m just gonna kill some of you for being dicks.’”

“They most likely didn’t know Sam was going to be sacrificed,” Cas piped in. “If Heaven could keep their wish of starting the Apocalypse a secret from _me_ they could keep it a secret from the Men of Letters as well.”

Introducing Castiel and Sam to each other in the aftermath of the showdown at the Devil’s Gate had been a bit awkward, but there really wasn’t much to say. They had buried the corpse of the woman possessed by Ruby, and Dean had helped Castiel on his feet.

They hadn’t really talked about what would happen now that Castiel was, for all intents and purposes, human. Dean had just pulled him up behind him in the saddle; Sam had to take Cas’ horse as Ruby’s and his had bolted (and no horse could carry Sam Winchester in addition to another fully grown man).

Cas didn’t _feel_ much different, Dean mused as he cast a glance at him. He looked tired and worn, a little older maybe. But he was still Castiel. Dean looked away, ashamed. He briefly put his hand on Castiel’s thigh under the table. When he met Dean’s gaze, Dean said with a low voice,

“Can I talk to you outside?”

Cas nodded, and they both left Sam, who awkwardly stalked over to where Ellen was standing behind the counter, eyeing them.

When they were finally outside, Dean inhaled the fresh evening air and pulled his hand through his short hair. Cas put his hands in the pockets of his pants. He was wearing nothing but a shirt, and one of his suspenders had slid off his shoulders – Dean brought it up and let his hand remain on his shoulder as he looked into his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

Castiel grinned and scratched at his few days’ worth of stubble. It wasn’t a happy grin.

“I don’t know if I will ever ‘be all right’, Dean. I’m an angel without grace, which means I’m not much of anything anymore.”

Dean forcefully grabbed Cas’ hand with his own and pushed in closer.

“You are a lot to me,” he said gruffly, trying desperately to convince Cas of his sincerity. “I’m sorry that you fell, I’m so sorry it’s my fault –“

“No, Dean,” Cas said, eyes suddenly sad. “Don’t think everything is your fault. You can’t carry it all on your shoulders, especially since it was _my choice_.”

His fingers tightened where they were laced with Dean’s, and he put their foreheads together.

“I can’t regret having a finite number of days to be alive if I get to spend them with you, Dean.”

Dean smiled, even though he also felt like crying. He didn’t know why, but he lifted Cas’ hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to his knuckles.

“I’d be honored if you wanted to spend them with me,” he mumbled against warm skin and then they were kissing, outside the Roadhouse, illuminated by the warm glow of the setting sun.

When they finally went inside again, Dean was feeling very self-conscious, but Sam turned towards them with the biggest grin, eyes glowing.

“Hey fellas!” he called. “Ellen and I came up with an idea to seal the Devil’s Gate!”

“Seal it?” Castiel asked with a frown. Dean sat down beside his brother and crossed his arms on the bar disk.

“What is it?” he said drily. Sam’s grin transformed into a little annoying smirk and Dean felt like smacking him over his head.

“A Devil’s Trap,” he stated triumphantly. Ellen leaned back onto her liquor cabinet and smirked, too.

“And how the hell are you supposed to make a lasting Devil’s Trap thereabouts?” Dean said gruffly and he saw Cas crossing his arms with a thoughtful look on his face.

“With iron,” Ellen said smilingly, eyes all scrunched up with mirth.

“What-“ Dean turned to her just to get interrupted by Sam’s excited exclamation,

“A railroad shaped like a pentagram, Dean! With the help of the Men of Letters we could do it!”

Dean could only gape. Castiel moved to lean onto the counter between them, turning towards the younger Winchester.

“It will take a while for that to get built, however much influence the Men of Letters can exert. Someone would have to stand guard and see that no demon can escape it until then.”

Sam pulled out the Colt and put it onto the disk.

“I was thinking of building a cemetery,” he said carefully, “with a big crypt with salt laden iron walls in the middle, sealing the Gate.”

He nodded to the gun.

“The Colt could be the key.”

“We’d still have to keep watch that no demon would try to break in before the railroad pentagram is finished,” Cas interjected, but Dean put his hand on his arm.

“We’ll do it,” he said, eyes gleaming. “We’ll build a house there and guard the Devil’s Gate while Sam fixes the railroad. Together.”

Castiel met his eyes and everyone went quiet.

“It’ll give you time to get used to be human,” Dean tried, suddenly worried. “We could, uh, I mean, hunt nearby and we wouldn’t have to stay there _all_ the time, but-“

“Yes,” said Cas and put his hand onto Dean’s. “Yes, let’s do it.”

For the first time in many years, Dean felt happy, truly happy. He figured his face looked totally ridiculous when he choked out,

“That’s great Cas. A little house on the prairie, you and me.”


End file.
